


from winter, a boundless spring

by notcaycepollard



Series: the future unfolding, infinite [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Found Family, M/M, Multi, OT3, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-OT3, Recovery, Slow Build, soft domestic winter falcon is my downfall, superheroes off-duty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7406737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve looks around and Sam suddenly sees what he's seeing. Even though Sam built that damn bookcase Bucky's still got a habit of leaving his books lying around in piles, Virginia Woolf and Murakami and the shitty scifi pulps he still loves all in stacks together, glasses abandoned on top of them. The cats are sprawled out sleepy over an afghan Nat knitted - the only afghan Nat ever knitted, because she picks up skills and drops them depending on who she's being that month - and Sam's Arabic homework is strewn across the coffee table, a coffee mug set down on top of it. Oh. Oh jesus. It's not Bucky that Steve wants, it’s not even just them, it's <em>this</em>, all of this, and how could he not. What they've built, it's goddamn gorgeous.</p><p><em>You can,</em> he thinks, <em>you could, we’d give you this if you let us,</em> and he doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know what Steve would do if he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from winter, a boundless spring

The first cat they get is a scrap of a thing Bucky brings home without Sam realizing.

“Her name’s Apple,” Bucky says, when Sam wakes up to an inquisitively wet nose in his face, tiny weight on his chest. Sam blinks a couple of times, takes in the little tabby. Bucky's already scratching her behind her ears. “Look,” he adds, as Apple starts licking Sam's nose, “she likes you.”

“I knew this would happen,” Sam sighs, resigned, “you said _let’s get a house_ , and I just _knew_ , Barnes, why did I know.”

The next cat that shows up is Sam's fault, actually. He just- he's just at the pet store buying food and a scratching pole, that's all, and he's not looking one bit in their display area. And then he hears a soft noise, and it's basically a foregone conclusion.

“Don't say it,” Sam warns when he gets in, trying to juggle the bag of kibble and the scratching pole and the cat bed and the cardboard box. “Don't you say a word.” Bucky doesn't, just takes the box out of Sam's arms, sits down, unfolds the lid. The kitten jumps out, lands unerringly on Bucky's shoulder and begins to purr. Bucky glances up at Sam through his eyelashes, smiles very slow.

“Sam Wilson,” he murmurs, and Sam crosses his arms like that'll make him actually look any cooler or less like he folded like a stack of cards as soon as he saw her round owl face and tiny nose and stubby whiskers.

“I said, not a word,” he mutters, but he can't help it, he's smiling despite himself. “And we're calling her Poppy, okay.” He’s never going to admit that she’s apparently a pedigree seal-point Burmese and she cost four hundred dollars, because Bucky’ll give him another _look_ , but she just- there was a glass cage, okay, and she was so _little_ , all alone and so miserable-looking, curled into the corner like she didn’t know what it was like to be touched, and Sam’s very soft-hearted.

Two cats seems like a reasonable number. Two people, two cats, a house with two bedrooms, it's almost overwhelmingly domestic, and every time Sam thinks about this being his life now he has to take a minute to be grateful. And then Nat comes by, and brings a housewarming gift.

“Mashka,” she says like that's _reasonable,_ like any reasonable person is allowed to come by with a _cat_ for a housewarming present and name it besides, but when Sam sees the sleek black cat he agrees, begrudgingly, that Nat's got a point. He's prepared for there to be long-drawn-out negotiations over power structure between the three cats, but Apple and Poppy basically cede everything to Mashka, up to and including letting her _sit_ on them when they're on the cushion she wants, and Nat smiles like she's smug about it.

“Your cat is a menace,” Bucky tells her over dinner the next time she shows up. Pours more wine into her glass, and Sam eats a bite of risotto and glances into the living room, the cats curled up in the corner of the couch. “She gets away with everything.”

“She's your cat,” Natasha shrugs, and drinks her wine.

“She's a _terrorist,”_ Bucky insists, “she beats up the other two, for shits sake.” Nat smirks.

“Well, you'd know,” she says, smooth, and Bucky _howls_ with laughter, and Sam just accepts that cats everywhere, and Bucky making mushroom risotto, and a formerly Russian spy dropping in for dinner and gossip and talking smack at his also-formerly brainwashed-assassin boyfriend, this is his new normal.

 

“It was nice, seeing Nat,” Bucky says sleepily into Sam's shoulder that night. “I wish Steve'd come by, though.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, and swallows hard. Steve's been- not _weird_ , but distant. Every time he sees the both of them, ever since they moved out, he gives them this look like it's distressing and beautiful in equal measures, and then blinks like he can hide it. He's missing them, maybe, missing the drive of the search or the fight. Not able to sit down and rest for one goddamn minute, maybe, just like Sam predicted.

“We gotta do something about it,” Bucky says, and yawns. They do. They do gotta do something about it.

He gets up early for a run the next day, breath clouding in the dry air, crunching through the frost with every footfall. It’s good, it’s crisp and clear and glorious, and when he gets back in Bucky’s still in bed and the coffee machine has just finished.

“Time is it?” Barnes mumbles when Sam brings up a mug of coffee. “You smell good. Like snow and clean air.”

“Yeah, it’s nice out there,” Sam agrees, and leans down for a kiss.

“Your face is cold,” Bucky grimaces, “ _ugh_ , running, in the _morning_ , we could be sleeping, Sam. I hope you realize that. The fucking worst, I swear.”

“Gimme a minute to shower, and then I’ll make you pancakes,” Sam says, and Bucky grins goofy-soft.

“Reevaluated,” he says, “you’re the best,” and Sam knows he’s only setting Bucky up to be more opportunistic for pancakes in bed in the future, but the way he’s curled in with the cats and the blankets and his sleep-rumpled hair, he’s so damn sweet Sam can't resist. He'll take it out of Bucky in five million cups of tea later, probably.

 _Dinner tomorrow?_ he texts Steve as he whisks lumps out of the batter, _Bucky’s making chicken pot pie_.

 _Can’t_ , Steve replies. _Driving out to the Bartons’ for Shabbat dinner, Wanda asked me._

 _You’re missing out. His pot pie is great. Saturday?_ There’s a long wait before Steve replies.

 _I got a date_. Sam frowns. Sees Steve start to type something else and then delete it, like he’s trying to think of what to say.

 _Next week?_ he tries. This time the wait’s even longer. Sam heats the pan, adds a knob of butter, tries not to check his phone every thirty seconds. Who the shit has Steve got a _date_ with, huh, and why's he being so squirrely about it.

 _Yeah, okay. Something I gotta talk to you about_.

Not ominous at all, Sam thinks, and pockets his phone. Yeah. Scratch that, Steve is being both distant _and_ weird. He flips the pancakes, and tries his best not to think about it.

 

When Steve shows up the following Thursday, Sam's sitting on the living room floor trying to put together an Ikea bookcase, because apparently Bucky hates reading on Kindle and also has a habit of dropping his paperbacks in the bath and so their house is overrun by books. Sam's tired of tripping over them in the mornings. It should not be hard, fuck, it's just a bookcase, but Sam's about ready to admit defeat.

“I think that piece goes on the other side,” Bucky says helpfully, watching from the kitchen door, and Sam tilts his head, evaluates what Bucky's suggesting. Yeah, that makes sense, actually, which means he's got to unscrew the whole thing. Goddamn it.

“They teach you to put together impossible furniture along with hand to hand combat and weapons skills?” he asks, and Bucky shrugs. Leans in the doorframe and sucks spaghetti sauce off the side of his hand.

“Get me some wood and I'll just build you a bookcase,” he says, “you'll love it, I swear.” The thing is, though, Sam probably would, even if it was just planks of wood stacked with cinderblocks. He's soft that way.

“Nah, I bought this, I'm gonna finish it,” he decides, but doesn't get back to the task just yet. Just sits and looks at Bucky for a minute or two, his long hair and tight black jeans and stubble on the verge of turning into a straight-up beard. “Hey,” he says, and has to hide a smile, “is something burning?”

Bucky looks alarmed. Disappears back into the kitchen, and there's silence for a few minutes, and then he reappears.

“Nothing’s burning,” he says accusingly, and Sam smirks. “Sam Wilson, you little _shit_ ,” Bucky snaps, and Sam laughs.

“Made you look,” he says smugly, and drops the screwdriver on the floor, leans back on his hands. “Guess I just thought something was on fire because you're too hot, baby.” Bucky's eyes go wide and then he's grinning, biting back a laugh.

“That is the _worst line_ I have ever heard,” he says disbelievingly, “Jesus, I can't with you,” and Sam shrugs.

“Get over here,” he demands, “you got something I need, Barnes,” and Bucky's three long and dirty kisses in with his hand on Sam's zipper when the doorbell rings.

“Ugh,” Bucky mutters, “I swear to god, he's got the worst fucking timing.”

“Answer the door,” Sam tells him, and kisses his cheek, gets back to the bookcase construction like they haven't just been making out on the floor for the last five minutes. Not that it matters: Steve gets in the door and gives them that same look as always, furtive and conflicted, before hiding it under what Sam knows is a veneer of good humor.

They're not undercover, not exactly, they're here in Canada legally and all, but Steve's grown a beard out regardless. Let his hair get a little longer, darker too like maybe he put brown dye through it or something. It makes him look more serious, although no less impossibly beautiful. Sam wonders, briefly, how his life became about these superhero lumberjacks. Nobody's wearing flannel yet but it's probably just a matter of time. He should have known, moving to Canada.

“I brought pie,” Steve says, and hands Bucky a box.

“You brought _storebought frozen pie_ , that doesn't count,” Sam tells him, and Bucky shoots him a meaningful look.

“Trust me, storebought is better than anything Steve’s gonna make.” Steve frowns like he’s about to argue, and Bucky raises his hand. “Don’t even _start_ , pal, I know my memory is shot to fuckin’ bits but I remember that cake you made in Lyon, I don’t think we’ve ever been so sick.”

“To be fair, it was the _middle of a goddamn war_ ,” Steve mutters, but he looks simultaneously annoyed and amused the way he always does when Bucky reads him for some shit he got up to seventy years ago, and Sam laughs.

“Okay, come help me with this fucking thing while Bucky finishes up with dinner,” he says, and wonder of wonders, they've actually got a working bookcase by the time dinner is ready. It's just spaghetti, baked chicken, green beans, but Steve looks at it all like it's some kind of miracle, and Sam narrows his eyes at him.

“You living on protein shakes and MREs now you’ve got your own apartment?” he asks, and Steve isn't quick enough to deny it. “Oh, Sam, the food's better in the twenty-first century, we used to _boil_ everything,” he mutters, falsetto. Steve has the good grace to blush.

“What the _fuck_ , we used to boil everything,” Bucky snaps, “maybe you did, Rogers, but don't rag on the thirties like that.”

“We _did_ ,” Steve protests, “that cream of celery soup Mondays down at the parish kitchen, Buck, you don’t remember?”

“Okay, yeah, that was disgusting,” Bucky agrees, and puts more chicken on Steve’s plate as if he’s still that skinny little kid who needs taking care of. Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and he’s never gonna point it out, because Bucky is the biggest mother hen he’s ever met and it’s endearingly hilarious to watch.

“So who was your date with?” he asks instead, and Steve shrugs like it’s not important.

“Oh,” he says, evasive, “just… some guy from the coffee shop by my apartment, it wasn’t really…”

“You had a date?” Bucky says. Turns to look accusingly at Sam. “He had a _date_?”

“Come on, I didn’t know I was his keeper,” Sam shoots back, and Steve sighs.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he says, “it’s not like it went super well. I dunno how I keep fucking it up.”

“What’d you say you like to do for fun?” Sam asks, teasing, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Oh, you know. Ice cream socials and Lindy hop and saving the world, that kind of thing.”

“You’re full of shit,” Bucky says, “you’re full of _shit_ , Steve Rogers, you hate ice cream socials. Wait, do they even exist anymore? Are they still a thing people do? Or is it all _Netflix and chill_ shit nowadays?” And the thing is, Sam knows Bucky’s making fun of him, he _knows_ , they fucking _Netflixed and chilled_ literally last night, Bucky was the one who signed them up for it in the first place, and yet.

“I’m dating a man who is literally like a hundred years old,” Sam laments, “this is my life now, this is why I should never get you two in a room together.”

“Technically you’re older than I am,” Bucky tells him, grinning, and Sam kicks him under the table.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Steve says like that’ll change the subject, and Sam raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, it was fine. He was fine. Everything’s _fine_ , Jesus, can we eat that pie now?”

 

They move into the living room with their bowls of pie, and all three of the cats immediately jump off the couch, swarm Steve and climb all over him like he’s their own personal jungle gym. Steve looks extremely perplexed.

“Why are they doing this,” he asks, winces when Apple gets onto his shoulder and starts investigating his ear. “Oh _god_ no that’s- fuck, help-” and Sam’s too busy wheezing with laughter to do anything except watch from the couch as Bucky rescues Steve from rogue whiskers.

“You are the weirdest person around cats I have ever met,” he gets out eventually, “what the _hell_ , Steve,” and Steve eats an enormous mouthful of blackberry apple pie.

“I was allergic,” he says indistinctly around the pastry, and Bucky nods like he remembers.

“They gave you asthma, right? We took Becca to see Mary Kelly’s pet kitten once and you had to wait outside all afternoon, you couldn’t even get close to me until I’d changed my jacket because of all the fur.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and blushes for what seems like no reason. _Get close_ , Sam thinks, and looks at Bucky, catches all the micro-expressions that usually go along with thinking about _before_. Then Mashka puts her front paws on Steve’s shoulders, drapes herself straight across his chest, and Steve goes from confused to soft in a flash, touches her head like he’s not sure how to pat her.

“Man,” Sam says, “that cat does not like _anyone_ , Steve, don’t fuck it up.”

“I’m very likable,” Steve jokes, and for a moment it feels like it’s all fine, like Steve’s not being so difficult, and Sam knows it can’t last. Eats his pie, and looks at Steve sitting in the armchair, and wonders what it’s gonna be.

“So,” Steve says, and he’s trying to be casual but Sam can hear how it’s serious, even as he’s putting down his empty bowl and scratching Mashka under the chin, “you know how I said we needed to talk.”

“Jeez, Stevie, you breaking up with us or what?” Bucky says, poking Sam’s thigh with his toes like he’s about to start some playful shit, and Steve frowns like it’s not a joke.

“What? No! Look, I've been in contact with Dr Foster,” Steve tells them, and Sam waits for it.

“Who’s Dr Foster?” Bucky shrugs, unconcerned. Stretches out a little more, so he’s taking up like two thirds of the couch, and Sam knows it’s deliberate.

“Jane Foster,” he murmurs, “she’s, what, an astrophysicist? She found Thor.”

“And the Tesseract,” Steve adds like that’ll make sense to Bucky, “she understands the Tesseract, at least more than anyone else on this planet.”

“The- right, okay. _Old_ Hydra shit,” Bucky agrees. Steve takes a breath.

“Well,” he says, “ _she_ thinks. Nobody knows what happened to Schmidt, not really. He grabbed the Tesseract, when we were on the Valkyrie, went up in a blaze of light, and I thought it destroyed him, but Dr Foster thinks it opened a portal. Transported him somewhere.”

“You think he’s still around,” Bucky says, very quiet, and Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I do. And Dr Foster - _Jane_ \- she thinks she can run some kind of quantum algorithm, I don’t really understand the science, but she thinks she can create another portal. To track him down.”

“No,” Bucky says, “ _no_ , I’m out, no, Steve, you know I can’t,” and he gets up, grabs their plates like he’s gonna put them in the dishwasher. Sam wants to follow him, but he can tell Steve’s not done, and this is _fucking stupid_ , it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard, he knows Steve has a deathwish sometimes but this is something else. And Steve’s looking at him like he’s hoping Sam will say _when do we start_ , and Sam knows he’s always said it up until now but it can’t keep happening, it fucking _can’t_ , and he feels himself begin to get mad as hell.

“Let me get this straight,” Sam says, “you want to take an experimental wormhole across the universe to chase down a terrifying skeleton Nazi you fought in World War Two.”

“When you put it like that,” Steve says, but his eyes still say he's doing it, and Sam sighs.

“That is the craziest goddamn idea I ever heard in my whole life,” he says flatly.

“I was hoping-” Steve starts, and Sam stares at him.

“I don't even have my wings anymore, man. They're, I dunno, somewhere in a government lab being taken apart by scientists.”

“I've got the specs,” Steve replies like it's simple. “Asked Carter if she could get them before she threw over the CIA, they scanned everything when we were taken into custody, we can rebuild.”

“Asked- you asked _Carter_ ,” Sam says, and it stings. Fuck, it stings. There's so much between him and Steve, of course there is, respect and friendship and fuck, love, yeah, there's love too, but he's been missing his wings and terrified of flying, both, for _months_ , and Steve never even thought to mention it. _Oh hey, Sam, we can rebuild your wings if you want_. _If that's something you'd like._ Until he needs a soldier, and then here he is.

“I assumed-” Steve starts, sounding confused, “I thought you'd have my back. Like you did with the Accords.”

“You assumed,” Sam sighs. “God, Steve, you- yeah, of course you did. In case you missed it, I had my own opinion on the Accords. I wasn't just blindly following you because I like the sound of your voice, man.”

“I know that,” Steve snaps, “I _know_ that, Sam, you think I don't appreciate what you did? What you gave up?”

He did. Sam gave up _so much_. And he'd do it again, when that's what was on the line. He'd seen Bucky in that fucking cell, come on. He knows what names on a list mean, when you got power and the folks in government don't like it. Knows his own damn history. This isn't the same. This is Steve burning himself up in his own search for meaning.

“I need you back, Sam,” Steve says, “you’re my wingman, come on,” and Sam wants nothing more than to say _yes_. Yes, I’m in, yes, god, he loves Steve so _much_ he wants to say yes to everything, and Steve’s desperate, always has been, but this is a different shape of desperation now.

“I’m not your soldier anymore, Steve,” Sam says, and he means it to come out calm but it sounds awful, he sounds _hollow_ , why is his voice doing that, what is- “I’m not- you have to, you have to _stop_ , you can’t keep taking it for granted, I’m your _friend_ not your goddamn second in command.”

“I know that,” Steve says, sounding stung, “ _Sam_ , of course I know that, but I just- you know why I do what I do. Why _we_ do it. If you can, and you don’t, that makes everything that happens on you.” It hits too deep; Sam knows Steve doesn’t mean it that way, not like that, but. It’s on him. Rhodes is on him, there’s red in his ledger, and Steve _knows_ how Sam feels about that. It’s fucking thoughtless, is what it is.

“You said something different last time,” Sam says, quiet, can’t even look at Steve. _You got out for a good reason. I can’t ask you to do this_. And Sam would, he’d help, Captain America still needs his _help_ , but where does it goddamn end. He’s so tired. He thought he was better. He’s so fucking _tired_.

“I think you need to leave now,” Bucky says from the kitchen doorway, very tightly, and Steve makes a noise like he’s hurting. _It’s okay_ , Sam wants to say, _it’s fine, we’re fine, you don’t-_ but he still can’t breathe, he just, he’s _falling_ , he’s up there just to watch, he thinks about strapping on the wings and his skin is crawling.

“ _Buck-_ ” Steve starts, and Bucky's face must be bad because he just stops right there. The only person who's ever been able to get Steve Rogers to shut up. “Okay. I- okay.” And then he's leaving, door banging behind him, and fuck, Sam really fucked that up.

“ _Steve_ fucked that up,” Bucky says. “Come on, baby. Just breathe, okay. Steve's gonna be fine, that dumbcluck. He just didn't think is all. It's gonna be fine, Sam.”

Sam doesn't have the energy not to believe him. He focuses on breathing, Bucky's hand between his shoulder blades. The warmth of Poppy’s fur in his lap.

“I'm fine,” he says. “I'm okay. I- fuck, I didn't realize that was gonna…”

“Let’s go take a bath,” Bucky suggests, and his voice is still so gentle. Sam just nods, lets Bucky push him up the stairs, and he’d be embarrassed if he had the capacity for it. Instead he just watches, dully, as Bucky fills the tub. Lets him strip him off.

 

The water is hot, and Bucky slots in behind him, lays a hand on the space between Sam’s neck and his shoulder, and Sam sighs it all out at once. Goes limp into the curve of Bucky’s arms.

“Local branch of the VAC does group counselling Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he says, and feels Bucky frown, his cheek pressed against Sam’s and chin on Sam’s shoulder.

“Thought you couldn't get back into that? Don’t they need different qualifications from the VA?”

“Not to facilitate,” Sam corrects himself. “I think I'm gonna start going.”

“Oh,” Bucky murmurs. “Right, yeah, okay.”

“I mean, I'm coping. Mostly. You know that I am. And I can do it by myself, I've been doing it by myself. But the thing is, I don't have to.”

“You think they got someone qualified to help me out?” Bucky asks, teasing. “I got a lot of issues. Childhood stuff, you understand.”

“Might need to go a little farther afield,” Sam replies, “the VAC folks might be a bit intimidated by the impressive breadth of your shit,” and Bucky laughs softly.

“It's just, I'm a little wary of psychologists after the last time I met one,” he says, and cackles. “Not the greatest experience with them, I hafta say.”

“Joking about trauma is classic deflection, James Barnes,” Sam mutters, and Bucky pinches him.

“No therapist talk when we're naked,” he says like that's a rule. It kind of is, actually. _No therapist talk at all_ is kind of a rule, between them. Sam made that decision months and months ago, stuck with it, and yeah, it's a good rule to keep. “Anyway, I'm not deflecting. If I don't get to have a little dark humor about my own fucked-up time of it what's even the point, huh?”

That’s fair, Sam thinks. What’s the point of any of it, if he can’t indulge in a little bleak humor about their situation every once in a while. They’re political refugees in _Canada_ , for fuck’s sake, and both of them have more than a bit of PTSD in the mix, and if everything he used to own hasn’t already been seized by the government then it’s still in a storage locker in DC that he’s not gonna be able to access in this lifetime.

“God, Steve's never going to talk to me again,” Sam sighs. Feels the sting of it all over again.

“If he doesn't I'll punch him in the mouth,” Bucky mutters, and Sam tilts his head back so he can roll his eyes at him.

“Thought you decided to be a pacifist.”

“I'll make an exception for that guy,” Bucky says. “Been punching _him_ since the damn twenties.”

“You never did,” Sam says. “He was all delicate and pretty back then.”

“That is true,” Bucky agrees. “Mostly I was stopping other people from punching him in the mouth. Always writing checks he can't cash, our Steve.”

He is. He is their Steve, and Sam doesn't know what the fuck to do about it, quite honestly. He hates saying no but he can't say yes, not anymore.

“You were right,” he says, “he doesn’t know a thing about how to quit fighting this war. I mean, surely he wanted to do something with his life, back when you were kids? You remember? What he thought he’d be when he grew up?”

“Mostly,” Bucky says quietly, “I think he thought he’d be dead,” and it brings Sam up short, because oh, _oh_ , god. God. It’s easy to forget.

“Is it weird?” he asks after a minute, “the whole Steve thing, I mean, is it- are we weird?”

“You're asking me,” Bucky points out, “the walking popsicle from the 1930s, I got snapped out of Soviet brainwashing by Steve's horrible beautiful face, you quit your job and walked away from your life to follow him following me, you went to _jail_ for us both. Yeah, Sam, it’s weird. But I think the thing with Steve is the least of our weirdness, honestly.”

“True,” Sam agrees, “true.”

“Anyway,” Bucky says. Strokes his palm over Sam’s shoulder, and it’s his left hand, the mechanics inside humming softly. “You really want _normal_?”

Sam doesn’t even have to think about it. He doesn’t want normal, he wants what they’ve got, this tangle of complication and weirdness, but it’s just- _Are we ever gonna talk about how we both love him_ , he wonders, like, he’s fairly sure Bucky’s loved Steve since he clapped eyes on him all skinny and sharp-boned, and Sam’s the same, Sam was done as soon as Steve made fun of his running and then blinked all sad and shit, and Sam loves Bucky and Bucky loves him but Steve’s _there_ , Steve’s gonna be there, they gotta do something about it. Maybe.

 

They don’t hear from Steve for a while, and that’d sting, usually, but right now it's just fine because Sam is getting nightmares again, and he's pretty sure it's because of the bullshit Steve insists on dragging back into his life. He's not completely certain he wouldn't start a fight, so Steve keeping his distance, that's okay. Maybe Steve's having nightmares too. Sam doesn't have the energy to worry about him. He's flying and falling and being shot at and falling and being hit and falling, falling and falling and falling, wings broken, air cold on his face.

Bucky gets up in the grey light of early morning, joins Sam on the couch. Poppy makes a reproachful noise when he dislodges her, but within minutes she's settling back onto Sam's lap, claws pricking his thighs in warning.

“Can't sleep?”

“Nope,” Sam says, “what a fucking constant, huh.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and something about the twist of his mouth makes Sam glance at him again.

“You too?”

“Not the- it's not the usual,” Bucky says. Pauses to consider. “You know, I didn't ever see the Red Skull until Steve got there? It was always Zola, doing the experiments, the Red Skull never… Anyway, Steve showed up, pulled me off a table, and then we were trying to escape, and.” He swallows. “I didn't remember until now, but I had nightmares about it right up until I died. Steve peeling off his face, or _me_ peeling off my face, fuck, for all I knew we had the same goddamn serum, I _knew_ something wasn't right about me anymore. In dreams I was always the monster underneath the surface.” He kicks his feet up sideways, curls in against Sam's side and sighs, quietly, closes his eyes. “I thought I'd died when I saw Steve,” he whispers. “I thought, you know, he was so _beautiful_ , and he'd always been beautiful but this was different, he was so tall and golden, just glowing all over, and I just, I thought I was dead and he was a goddamn angel, and he could have led me anywhere, right then. Then the Red Skull showed up, and it wasn't heaven Steve was leading me into, I knew that for fucking sure.”

“You never, with Steve…” Sam says, and strokes his hand through Bucky's hair, and Bucky sighs.

“Of course I never. _You_ never. You know how Steve is, for shits sake. And there was Carter - _Peggy,_ I mean, shit - and I just wasn't sure I wasn't wrong inside. Never got a chance, after that.”

Sam thinks about that for a while, combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair from scalp to end, over and over, until it’s smooth and fanned out over Sam’s hip where Bucky’s got his head resting. There’ve been so many chances, and no chances at all, and here they are now, leaning on each other to take whatever they can get and make it a life, something real and solid and true.

“Take me back to bed,” Sam murmurs, “I wanna feel something good,” and Bucky does, Bucky pushes him down into the mattress and touches him for hours, the kind of sex that’s so slow and builds for so long that Sam just feels it washing over him in waves. He thinks maybe he comes before Bucky even gets his dick in him, but it’s all so _good_ , it’s just so good, and he’s out of his head for the first time in days.

“God, look at you,” Bucky says afterward, “ _look_ at you,” and he does, rests his chin on Sam’s chest and gazes at him for a long time like he doesn’t want to look away.

“Something on my face?” Sam asks, trying to smirk, but he’s too content, can’t make his face do anything other than a smile that’s way too soft, and Bucky smiles back, touches Sam’s mouth.

“You're not the consolation prize,” Bucky tells him, more earnest than he's ever been, “Sam, you know that, right? You’re not- I’m not with you because I can’t be with Steve, or anything like that, you’re just, you're the main event, okay?”

“Oh my god, just say you love me, you emotionally repressed century-old asshole,” Sam teases, and Bucky loses the serious expression.

“Jerk,” he mutters, kisses Sam’s sternum and ribs and the hollow of his shoulder. “But I do. Jesus, Sam, I do, and I’m just so fucking _lucky_.” They are, they are, they're lucky they're not dead, lucky they're not in a prison cell, lucky they're here together in a bed that smells like them with cats on their feet and Sam's hands in Bucky's hair.

 

Bucky has a few bad days after that, completely unsurprising but clearly frustrating. He goes all quiet, non-verbal, spends a lot of time on the living room floor writing intently in a hard-cover notebook. Sam’s not worried but he’s careful; Bucky’s spent so much time being gentle with Sam it’s easy to do the same, to let him have these silent days without pushing too hard for immediate resolution. Sometimes you just gotta get it out. Sam gets it.

He sits down on the couch, puts a cup of coffee down next to Bucky without saying anything, and Bucky sighs, blinks like he’s coming out of a fugue, leans his head back against Sam’s knee.

“You doing okay?” Sam asks, touching Bucky’s hair, and Bucky closes the notebook, drops his pen onto the floor.

“I dunno,” he says. “I thought I was. I think I am.” He goes silent again, picks up his coffee and wraps both hands around the mug, sips it slowly. It’s sweeter than usual; Sam figures the extra sugar won’t do him any harm, and the way Bucky sighs at the first mouthful, he’s guessed right on Bucky needing the comfort of it.

“Anything I can do?” Sam murmurs, still stroking Bucky’s hair, thumb gentle on the delicate skin behind Bucky’s ear, and he doesn’t mean _can I cure you_ or any of that shit because he knows he can’t, knows he won’t, but he’s checking in nevertheless. _You doing okay? Need more of this processing time?_

“No,” Bucky says, thoughtful. “No, you know how it is.” Yeah, Sam knows how it is. The VAC sessions are helpful, more so than he’d expected - he’s gotta elide over some of the details, but capture and detainment, being a POW no matter how brief, that’s an experience the other vets are good at understanding. He hadn’t really realized how much the Raft had messed him up, was too busy being fucked up about Rhodes and Riley to dig deeper than that. “Thank you,” Bucky adds after a silence, “I mean, you don’t- you don’t gotta look after me, Sam, you’re not my _caretaker_.”

He isn’t. Not his therapist, not his caretaker, but he _loves_ Bucky, and this is what you do. This is how you do it.

“Yeah, man, I know,” he agrees, “I’m not doing it out of obligation. Just checking on my boyfriend, making sure he’s handling it.”

“I am,” Bucky murmurs, relaxing a little. “Yeah, Sam, I am handling it. Just give me a bit more time, okay?”

“You got all the time you need, baby,” Sam tells him, “but I better go, I got session in half an hour. You want anything from town?”

“Chicken noodle soup from the good deli,” Bucky says, leaves his head resting on Sam’s knee for a little longer, and yeah, Sam can do that, alright.

When he gets in, it’s gone past twilight and into dusk. The sun sets early these days, getting into winter, and their house is softly lit up and warm but Bucky’s not in the living room or kitchen or bedroom. Sam finds him in the bath, eyes closed, one arm draped over the side of the tub and a book on the floor underneath his fingertips like it’s just slipped out of his grasp. Sam leans in the doorway and watches him, and Bucky blinks awake, smiles very slow. He's flushed with heat, his hair damp and wavy from the steam, and his eyelids are heavy like he's been asleep for a while. The heat helps, Sam knows; his shoulder still aches with the scarring and the weight of the metal, and although the lighter arm makes a difference, it’s never gonna be healed for good.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, sounding more like his usual self, “hey, how was the VAC?”

“Yeah, it was good,” Sam tells him, comes in and sits down in the chair they’ve got next to the tub for just these kind of moments. Bucky stretches in the water, lifts one foot out and hooks it over the edge of the tub, and Sam reaches for it, touches the bone of his ankle, his slender instep. Remembers tickling Bucky until he shrieked, but he doesn’t, this time. Just wraps his fingers around the arch of his foot, strokes his other hand up the muscle of his calf. Bucky sighs, closes his eyes again.

“Feels good,” he mutters, and sinks down lower, dips below the surface and comes up blinking bathwater out of his eyes, hair plastered against his forehead.

“Chicken soup downstairs,” Sam says, “if you want to get out and come eat. Or I can bring it up here?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “yeah, that… yeah, please,” and turns the faucet on with his toes to refill the bath with more hot water.

They eat soup together in peaceful silence. Sam’s still thinking about session, the intensity of it, and he feels drained, but not in a bad way. Just _lighter_ , like he’s laid something down for a while, and he can see in Bucky’s face he feels the same. When they’re done, he puts down his bowl, picks up the book from the floor.

“Seriously,” he asks, “man, this isn’t a bit on the nose for you?” and Bucky laughs and laughs, because it’s _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_.

“I like it,” he protests, “you know I like all that science shit, always have. Bought all the pulps for a nickel, and now half of ‘em are classics. Hey, read to me a bit, would you?”

“You’ll get waterlogged, you stay in too long,” Sam teases, and he can see that Bucky’s fingertips are already wrinkled and soft, but he opens the book anyway. “Where were you?”

“I dunno,” Bucky says. Leans back in the bath until he’s up to his chin. “Just pick somewhere good.”

“Okay,” Sam says. Puts his feet up on the edge of the bathtub, and flicks open the book. Starts reading, and Bucky listens, rapt. It's the test, the Voight-Kampff test, and Sam keeps his voice low, watching how Bucky reacts.

 _“Does she know?” Sometimes they didn’t; false memories had been tried various times_ , he reads, and Bucky jerks. _"No. We programmed her completely. But I think toward the end she suspected."_

“I knew,” Bucky says, eyes closed. “I _knew_ , of course I knew. I knew what I was. What they made me do.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Of course you did,” and closes the book, grabs a towel.

 

They level out again, over days and then weeks. Spend a weekend taking a drive out to the farm and staying over, get their neighbor to feed the cats while they’re gone, and Wanda and Bucky fill the next day speaking nothing but Sokovian while she supervises him making paprikash and spätzle, pierogi and makowiec. When they’re done the kitchen smells good, smells like nothing Sam thinks of as home, and when Sam glances at Bucky he can see how Bucky looks at Wanda like he must have looked at Becca, once.

“Oh,” Laura says when she eats her first pierog, “not bad, Buck, it's almost as good as my bubbe's,” and Wanda laughs.

“He is a good cook,” she says, “learns quickly. Not like my brother,” and Bucky adds something in Sokovian that makes Laura snort. Says something in Polish, and Bucky responds in Russian, and Sam blinks a little, because he’d forgotten, living here, how intense it got when the polyglots get together.

“Laura speaks twelve languages, you know,” Clint says easily. “Used to work for SHIELD. It's how we met, actually.”

“It's how _Nat_ and I met, baby,” Laura says with a smile, “you just came after. And it’s fourteen, now.”

“Now Laura and I are both translators,” Wanda says. “You could work for us.”

“Nah,” Bucky says, “nah, but it's good to keep in practice. What else you got? Romanian, right? I remember Romanian, last time we were here.”

“Yes, also Serbian and Ukrainian,” Wanda says, “a little Hungarian. Laura has Russian, mostly, and Polish. Better at Sokovian than she used to be.”

“Yeah, it's a regular Eastern European circus up in this house,” Clint grumbles, “half the time I can't tell what damn language the kids are speaking, it starts in English and ends in Russian with a vacation to Polish along the way. Especially when Nat drops by and I'm outnumbered.” But he's grinning like he loves it, and Bucky makes a very Russian noise before he shoves a whole dumpling in his mouth, and Sam loves all these folks so damn much his heart might burst a little.

“Hey,” he says to Clint, quiet, when Laura and Wanda and Bucky go back to their competitive language one-upmanship, “when Steve came out for Shabbat, did he…”

“I told him I really was retired this time,” Clint says like he understands where Sam's going with this. “None of y'all have a kill order out on you, and I'm not signing back up for a fight when it's not necessary.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, feeling relieved. “Yeah, cool. And Wanda?”

“You know, he didn't ask,” Clint says. “But she's my goddamn little sister now, Laura's even more, the kids love her like she's their other weird aunt, and after the Raft… We're not getting back in. Maybe she’ll do something with Nat, down the line, that’s her choice. I guess we’ll see. She likes the language stuff, right now.”

“You know SHIELD does still exist?” Sam asks. “They could still work for SHIELD, if that…”

“Who the hell do you _think_ they're working for?” Clint asks, “translators trained in SHIELD analysis and Avenger tactics aren't exactly thick on the ground, even now,” and Sam thinks about Phil Coulson, his soft eyes and easy smile. “Yeah, he used to be my handler, way back when. I've known for a while he's still around. Good at keeping secrets, when I gotta be.”

“Right,” Sam says, and thinks about all the ways they live, now. “That's. That's good.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “Yeah, buddy, it is.”

Nat shows up with unerring accuracy just as Bucky is slicing the makowiec, accepts a huge piece of it and takes a seat on the couch so Lila can curl up next to her and tell her about their newest school. When Laura comes in, Nat glances up, gives her a very soft look.

“I saved you some pierogi,” Laura tells her, “wasn’t sure if you’d be here tonight,” and Nat smiles.

“I’ll eat them later,” she says, “I heard Barnes is pretty good in the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “ _pretty_ good. I think I’m gonna keep him around just for the food.” Bucky shoves Sam in the shoulder but he’s smiling like he’s pleased, and then he grins and kisses Sam, right in front of everyone. He's got poppy seeds stuck in his teeth from the makowiec and the kiss tastes like lemon zest and butter and sweet yeast dough, and Sam doesn't make fun of him the way he might have any other time. Just eats more pastry, and listens to the conversation going on in at least three languages around them.

 

When they get back, the cats are mad they’ve been gone, but by that night they’re mostly forgiven, and the next day they wake up with all three of them on the bed, curled in so close it’s ridiculous.

“We need groceries,” Sam says, sleepily, and Bucky makes a cranky noise, tucks himself in closer against Sam’s chest.

“Nah,” he says, “we’ll just order takeout the rest of our lives, means we can stay in bed all day.”

“You say that now, but when you want to make lasagna tonight and we don’t have any pasta, you’re gonna get mad,” Sam murmurs, and Bucky huffs with laughter like he knows it’s true.

“How did I wind up cooking all the damn time?” he demands. Sam reaches down and smacks his butt, laughs at how Bucky yelps.

“Because you love it,” he says, “and because I make you pancakes in bed, Barnes.”

“You haven’t done that in _months_ ,” Bucky whines, but he’s sliding his hand up Sam’s thigh, and everything is so warm and so sweet Sam _could_ stay in bed all day, seems like a good choice, until Apple spots the movement and pounces, hard, and everything descends into chaos.

“We should really train these little shits not to sleep on the bed,” Bucky says afterwards, even as he’s letting Apple settle right in the crook of his elbow, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Be my guest,” he says, “I’m gonna take first shower, okay?”

“Pancakes?” Bucky asks hopefully.

“Yeah, yeah, if you go make the coffee,” Sam tells him, and rolls into a sleepy and warm kiss, and wonders, as he does pretty much every morning, how this became his life.

When he gets back in, puts the groceries down on the kitchen table, he glances over to where Bucky is reading on the couch. He’s got his back to Sam, and his hair is out loose, and it must be a good day because he’s still visibly relaxed even with his back to the door and fuck-all sightlines. Sam grabs the chocolate bar he’d picked up last-minute at the cashier, tosses it over to him. Bucky catches it without looking, which Sam’s never going to tell him will never stop being impressive, and Sam gives up on unpacking the grocery bags, goes to give him a kiss. Leans in, brushes his hair away so he can press a kiss to the nape of his neck, the curve of it, his jaw, and Bucky hums in pleasure. Brings his right hand up to touch Sam’s cheek.

“Good day?” he asks, and Sam nods.

“I think so. You?” Glances over Bucky’s shoulder at the book in his lap. “Dostoyevsky, huh?”

“I’m cultured,” Bucky says. “I _read_. Not just pulps and shit, I’m about the classics. What, you think I don’t?”

“No, of course you-” Sam starts, and then blinks a little, because he’s finally glanced at Bucky's face properly, and- “You're messing with me,” he says. “ _Reading_ glasses? You're a damn super soldier.” Bucky touches his fingers to the frames, shrugs a little.

“I was always a little long-sighted,” he says like it's nothing. “Useful, for a sniper. I guess the serum just amplified that. I'll say it for Hydra, they knew how to build a damn weapon. Even if it's goddamn frustrating now that I'm trying to be a human.” Sam bites his lip, and Bucky grins. “You don't like em?”

“Well it's just, I knew I was dating an old man, but I didn't know you were a literal grandfather, pops,” Sam teases, and Bucky's eyes go dark.

“Hmm,” he says, and looks like he’s about to smack Sam or kiss or maybe just pull him right into his lap. Sam’s honestly down with any or all, right now. Instead, Bucky just exhales, his mouth very close to Sam’s, and blinks slowly, pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose. They’re fucking tortoiseshell, wide-framed, and the thing is, Bucky actually doesn’t look so much like a grandfather as a fucking _hipster_ of the highest degree, given the plaid shirt and soft hair and sharp jaw. It’s intolerable, it’s totally intolerable, and Sam’s so in love it hurts.

“Are you gonna move your book so I can sit down?” he asks, and Bucky shrugs. Unwraps his candy bar. He likes the Kinder bars, the weird European ones that mostly taste like milk and sugar, and Sam doesn’t understand why but Bucky’ll eat like twenty of them in a day if he gives in and buys that many. It’s lucky they’re like fifty cents a pop.

“You might break my hip, sitting on me,” he says, mouth full. “Since I’m so _old_ , and all.”

“Ass,” Sam murmurs, and moves the book himself. Settles himself down into Bucky’s lap, straddling his hips.

“Hey, you’re the one making fun of the goddamn war veteran,” Bucky tells him.

“We’re both vets, buddy, don’t even start. And give me a bite.”

“You don’t even _like_ Kinder bars,” Bucky grouses, but he lets Sam take a bite anyway. Palms his hand up under Sam’s shirt. “I was kinda wondering,” he says thoughtfully, after a minute, “about going to college.”

“That’s funny,” Sam says. “So was I.”

“Huh,” Bucky murmurs. “What’re you gonna study?”

“No, you first, man,” Sam insists, and Bucky shrugs a little.

“I dunno, I was thinking maybe comparative literature.” He reaches down, picks up his book off the floor and shifts it to the coffee table. He’s careful like this with books, Sam’s noticed. Won’t dog-ear them or leave them open and cracking down the spine. Leaves them in major piles all over the place, and reads paperbacks in the bath with no regard for it getting wet, but that’s apparently acceptable.

“Sounds… good,” Sam says, cautiously, and Bucky grins.

“Sounds boring, is what you’re thinking,” he says lightly. “I know you, Wilson. I dunno, I think I’d like it. Some kind of knowledge just for the sake of it, you know? Something I’m not learning for anyone but me.”

“Right,” Sam agrees, “right, okay. Hey, you're reading the English translation?” Bucky shrugs, a little uncomfortable.

“ _Da_ ,” he says. “Russian, it's not a language I like reading, now. Speaking’s fine, but after the Red Book, I dunno. Doesn’t feel good.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Sam says. Bucky glances again at the book - _Crime and Punishment_ \- and reaches out, touches the cover lightly with one finger.

“I borrowed it from Laura,” he says, “Nat recommended it,” like that explains everything. Maybe it does. Nat understands Bucky sometimes in ways Sam’s still not sure of. It’s a Red Room thing, perhaps, or something else. But Bucky looks relaxed, thoughtful but not unhappy, and Sam thinks maybe that’s enough.

“So _I_ was thinking,” he says, shifting down so he can drape himself over Bucky’s chest, “I might go and take some night classes at the local college. I know Arabic, the basics at least, I learned a bit while I was at the VA. One of the other counsellors was a translator in Iraq before he got out, taught those of us who wanted to learn. But I want to get better. Practice.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, “sounds good.”

“And then,” Sam murmurs, “maybe, I might see if they've got room for me volunteering with the refugee resettlement folks. You know how many Syrian refugees Canada’s taking in at the moment, I feel like I could be useful that way. Do some good, you know?”

“You are entirely too good a person to exist, Sam Wilson,” Bucky says, sliding his right hand up under Sam’s sweater, and Sam feels himself blush, cheeks hot.

“No,” he says, “no, I just-”

“You just want to _help_ , baby, of course you do. You’re a goddamn superhero, is what you are. Steve ain’t got nothing on you.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “well…” and tries to distract Bucky from saying nice things, because it’s _fucking embarrassing_. Apparently the distraction, in the form of Sam’s mouth on Bucky’s collarbone, is highly effective. Bucky’s breath hitches, and he wriggles a little under Sam, scrapes his nails blunt down Sam’s spine. They make out for a bit, slow and lazy, and they’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to be, it’s just _nice_.

“Lemme do you on the couch,” Bucky whispers, “come on, Sam, I'll make it so good.”

“We gotta put the groceries away,” Sam protests, “the ice cream’ll melt,” but he doesn't  pull away. Bucky gives him what he can't help thinking of as the Winter Soldier stare.

“ _Fuck_ the ice cream,” he growls, and Sam smirks.

“Baby, I thought you wanted to fuck _me_ ,” he says, smug as shit, and is rewarded with Bucky blinking in lust-awash confusion before he throws his head back and laughs. Sam takes the opportunity to get his mouth on Bucky's throat, just the edge of teeth the way he likes it sometimes, hears Bucky moan, and then they're on each other, slow and hard and filthy.

The ice cream melts. Sam does not give one single shit.

 

Christmas comes up without either of them hardly realizing it, and Sam gets home one day to find an evergreen wreath hung on the front door. Bucky makes a face when he mentions it, but grins, too, and Sam thinks about how they got a _house_ , now, something they could hang lights on for Christmas if they wanted. It’s weird and great and perfect, not the life he thought he’d have but a good life regardless, and _god_ he’s lucky.

They go back to the Bartons’ for Hannukah, because Wanda calls to ask, and that’s nice, Bucky and Wanda frying latkes and Laura lighting candles with the kids. For Christmas, it’s just the two of them, in their little house, and Sam’s good with that, mostly. He wonders if Steve might drop by, but he doesn’t, and that’s okay. Sam calls his mom, Christmas morning, and spends an hour afterwards crying a little and so bittersweet happy it aches. She’s always known he’s not dead or in prison - the first thing he’d done, practically, when they’d got him out of the Raft - but shit does he miss her, and when she calls him _baby_ he can feel it right in his chest.

“Let’s not do much,” Bucky had said, and Sam had agreed, lazy, but they cook way too much regardless, turkey, dressing, three different kinds of pie. The pecan is almost as good as Sam remembers his mom’s being, and the pumpkin pie Bucky makes is better. They eat until they’re sick, and lie around on the living room floor groaning, and then Bucky goes back for seconds.

“How,” Sam demands, “Buck, _how_ ,” and Bucky laughs through a mouthful of pie.

“I spent seventy years on nutrient IVs and two years living undercover trying to remember how to be a human, I’m taking my opportunities while I got em,” he says, and when he puts it that way, Sam gets it.

Steve finally comes by just as January slides into February, and when he answers the door Sam can’t do anything except blink a little.

“It’s been _two and a half months_ ,” he says eventually, “what the _fuck_ , Steve,” but even as he says it he’s dragging Steve into a hug, pulling him into the house like he might leave again.

“I know,” Steve says, “I know, I know, I- I had to level out, okay. Took me a while.”

“I get it,” Sam sighs, and he does, he gets it, but- “I mean, I gotta say, you were making some piss-poor life choices, man.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “what can I say, you and Buck got all the good choices on lock, I'm pickin’ up what's left.” He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, and Sam sighs again. He loves Steve, he really does, but this thing Steve’s doing, it’s driving him crazy.

“You want a coffee?” he asks instead, “I just finished brewing a pot,” and Steve nods, sits down like he’s still not quite sure Sam won’t yell at him instead. God, it’s painfully tentative.

"Sam," Steve says quietly, chews his lip, looks up at Sam. "Jesus, I- fuck, Sam, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I was being a jerk, I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have said what I said. Any of it."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "yeah, you shouldn't have, and you were, Steve, you were out of line."

"I know," Steve whispers, "I know." Swallows convulsively. "I missed you," he adds. "I didn't know whether to... I was afraid, I guess. Being a coward."

"Come  _on_ ," Sam sighs. "You should have called."

"I should have done a lot of things," Steve says, looking Sam square in the eye, and the last of Sam's anger bleeds away, because yeah, Steve crossed lines, crossed them bad, but fuck if he hasn't missed Steve too.

"Okay," he says. "Just- don't do it again. I got you, you know I do. But you can't, Steve, not like that."

"Yeah," Steve breathes, "yeah, I- okay. Okay." And then they're quiet for a bit, Sam making coffee, and Steve joins him in the kitchen, presses his shoulder against Sam's like he's not sure it'll be welcome. He's so  _warm_ , Sam had forgotten, and it's hard to resist the urge to lean his head on Steve's shoulder the way he would with Bucky.

"Pass me the milk?" he asks, and Steve reaches for it, looks around like he's expecting someone else.

“Bucky’s not home?” Steve says, a little surprised, and Sam shakes his head as he passes Steve a mug of coffee.

“Got class,” he explains, “he enrolled in the local university,” and he takes that moment to text Bucky. _Steve’s here. Finally._

 _Don’t let him leave before I get home_ , Bucky replies a minute later, and Sam wasn’t exactly planning on it, but when he glances up, the look Steve’s making is difficult.

“He’s at college?” Steve asks, all soft and breathless like that’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard in his life, and come _on_ , Sam thinks, Steve had his chance, had a hundred chances, it’s not fair he’s making this face now when Sam’s so lucky with what he’s got.

“Yeah,” he agrees, shorter than he means it to come out, “yeah, he- yeah. We both are, man. It’s going well.”

“Right,” Steve says, draws his shoulders in a little, “right,” and fuck, Sam’s not petty, he wants Steve to be happy but god, why’s he always gotta want Sam to give so much.

But then Steve looks around and Sam suddenly sees what he's seeing. Even though Sam built that damn bookcase Bucky's still got a habit of leaving his books lying around in piles, Virginia Woolf and Murakami and the shitty scifi pulps he still loves all in stacks together, glasses abandoned on top of them. The cats are sprawled out sleepy over an afghan Nat knitted - the only afghan Nat ever knitted, because she picks up skills and drops them depending on who she's being that month - and Sam's Arabic homework is strewn across the coffee table, a coffee mug set down on top of it. There are at least three screwed-up Kinder bar wrappers on the floor, because the cats love them more than any cat toy they've ever actually spent money on. A pair of Bucky's shoes lying under a chair where he's kicked them off, and the kitchen radio is tuned to whatever the Canadian version of NPR is because Sam finds the soft hum of conversation comforting. He can smell lemons, there's a bowl of them sitting on their dining table under the sunny window, and the fridge has a drawing Lila drew for Bucky last time he was there. Oh. Oh jesus. It's not Bucky that Steve wants, it’s not even just them, it's _this_ , all of this, and how could he not. What they've built, it's goddamn gorgeous.

 _You can_ , he thinks, _you could, we’d give you this if you let us_ , and he doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know what Steve would do if he did.

 

His phone rings in the awkward silence, and he smiles, involuntary, when he sees it’s Bucky.

“Picking up food, whaddya want?”

“Hey,” Sam says, “you want to stay for dinner? Bucky’s getting takeout.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “yeah, sure. Tell him get me lo mein.”

“It’ll be bún thịt nướng,” Sam tells him, “he’s at the Vietnamese place,” and when Bucky gets home, he’s carrying like five bags of takeout, wearing a baseball cap and his jacket buttoned right up to the collar, eyes bright and cheeks red from the cold.

“Mrs Trần says hi,” he says to Sam, “she wants to know why you never visit anymore. Hey, Stevie.”

“Hey,” Steve says, “hey, hi,” and he’s trying to be easy but Sam catches the way he looks, when Bucky unwinds his scarf from around his neck and leans in to press a cold-mouthed kiss to Sam’s cheek.

“Anyway, you _know_ why I never go anymore, Mama Trần loves you way more than me ‘cause you always flirt with her in Vietnamese, that’s why she always gives you free spring rolls,” Sam says, deliberately light, and Bucky laughs like he knows what Sam’s doing.

“I do have free spring rolls,” he admits, “and pho, and that bún bò huế you like, and fuck, I’m hungry, can we eat?”

“Since when do you speak Vietnamese?” Steve asks as they’re sitting down, and Bucky makes a face around his spring roll.

“Don’t,” he says, “you- you don’t wanna know, Steve,” and Steve blanches like he’s realizing. “Yeah,” Bucky says, chewing slowly, “yeah, they didn’t wipe languages. Too fuckin’ _useful_ , alright. I’m a regular goddamn polyglot, all the places we fucked up in the last fifty years, I got em all.” Steve winces, and Sam eats his bún bò, silent, watching how Bucky’s pushing Steve on this. Steve doesn’t say anything, just sets down his chopsticks, and Bucky stares at him.

“If you're here to try talking us into it again,” Bucky tells him, “I can tell just from your stupid goddamn _face_ , Steve. And Sam’s said no, and this is me saying no again, okay. I’m _out_. We're out.”

“I need you,” Steve says, “I need the both of you, I can’t do this on my own,” and Bucky sighs.

“Whatever it is you want, it involves violence, I'm out,” Bucky says. “I told you, I don't do that anymore.” His voice shakes a little but he's firm, face resolute, and Sam just looks at the way Steve looks at him, the conflict clear in Steve's eyes.

“Bucky…” he says, and Bucky shakes his head.

“I'm not a weapon anymore, I made that choice, I'm _making_ that choice. Come on, Steve. This new arm, it's not built for combat.” Steve sighs.

“I hear you,” he says, “but I can't stop, Buck, they made me a weapon too. A soldier for fighting.”

“That’s fucking _bullshit_ ,” Bucky tells him, “you goddamn punk, Steve, you _know_ that’s bullshit.” Steve's quiet for a minute, still staring at Bucky, the muscle in his jaw working, and Sam wonders if he's about to haul off and punch Bucky, or slam the door again as he leaves. “Look,” Bucky says, softer, “look, Steve, we love you, we do, you're my best friend and Sam's, but we're not gonna fix your problems for you. This ain't shit that can be fixed by fighting.”

Steve sighs. Looks down, fiddles with his chopsticks.

“I know,” he admits, “Jesus, I _know_ , I just. How do I stop.”

“You know Sam is not the only therapist in the world, right? He's not gonna fix you and you gotta stop wishing he would, it's fucking unfair to him and you both, but there are people out there who could help.”

“We never had therapy in the thirties,” Steve says, half defensive and half bleak-humored, and Bucky laughs shortly.

“Yeah, and we were so fuckin’ happy, right? Not repressed at all, buddy. What a goddamn golden age.”

“Okay, okay, you've got a point,” Steve sighs, and reaches for a spring roll, the tension in the room dissipating. Bucky squeezes Sam's knee under the table, and Sam glances at him, smiles softly a little sideways.

“What am I supposed to do,” Steve says. “What do I even _do_.”

“Ice hockey,” Sam suggests. “Fishing. _Curling,_ that's a sport for old people, right?”

“Fuck you,” Steve says without heat, and Bucky snorts with laughter.

“Sam and me, we're going to college, like a coupla regular swells,” he says, and shovels noodles into his mouth. “I'm studying _literature._ ”

“Yeah, you're a beautiful hot professor, except when you're speaking through like five mouthfuls of pho,” Sam agrees, “that's _disgusting_ , Buck.”

“Whatever,” Bucky shrugs. “You love me. No take-backs.”

“I must do,” Sam says dryly, “given I spent like two years looking for you.”

“Nah, that's because you love Steve,” Bucky tells him, “loving me, that came afterwards.” Jesus _Christ,_ Sam thinks, Bucky can't just- _drop_ this shit into a conversation like it's easy. _Hey Steve, we love you, here's how. You're part of this now_. Except he does, Bucky _did_ , said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, grinning and chewing with his mouth open and fighting Sam for the last spring roll, and Sam can see Steve's hit by it, just totally fucking bowled over the head with the idea. It'd be hilarious how shocked he is if it weren't so _fucking sad_ , because come on, Steve, of course Sam loves him.

 

They drop the subject after that. Maybe Sam and Bucky have gotta talk about some things before anything else. Maybe Steve's got to sit with it for a bit, work out who he is when he's not fighting.

“I did always want to go to art school, I guess,” Steve says. Laughs like it’s the dumbest thing ever. “Maybe I should give that a go now I’ve got the time and the money.”

Sam thinks about Steve covered in oil paint, sleeves rolled up, and maybe it comes out a little too sincere when he says, “yeah, Steve, you should.”

In the living room, the cats pile onto Steve again, and Sam can’t hide his laughter when Steve’s just as awkward about it as ever.

“It’s ‘cause you’re warm, man,” he says, and Steve sighs like he’s put-upon, but he looks ridiculously pleased, too, when Mashka settles back into her favorite spot.

“Thought I’d fucked it up,” he murmurs, and Bucky snorts.

“Who says you didn’t, you jerk?” he replies, but he ruffles Steve’s hair as he goes into the kitchen to make tea, and Steve just laughs. They sit around, talk shit, for hours and hours, and _oh_ , Sam’s missed this.

“Well, I better go,” Steve says eventually, gets to his feet even though the cats protest, and Bucky stands up too. Sam takes the opportunity to stretch right out on the couch, comfortable and lazy, and immediately gets colonized by two out of three cats like they’ve just been waiting for the chance.

“Don’t leave it so long next time,” he says to Steve, and Steve nods, shoves his hands in his pockets and then takes them out again, ducks his head like he’s embarrassed. Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs him, pulls him into a hug and bumps a kiss to his cheek. Steve turns so red Sam’s a little worried he’s gonna give himself a nose-bleed.

“You _kissed_ me,” he says, and Bucky snickers.

“On the _cheek_ , Jesus Christ, don’t die about it. Nat does it when she’s saying goodbye, it’s nice.” Steve blinks a little like he’s adjusting, and then nods, bites his lip a little.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay. It _is_ nice,” and goes to kiss Bucky back, awkward but sincere. Bucky lets him - rolls his eyes again at Sam over Steve's shoulder - and then when Steve starts to pull back, Bucky leans in again and brushes a kiss to his mouth, slow and sweet and lingering.

Well, Sam thinks. That just happened. Bucky's still looking at Sam, blue eyes wide, and Sam guesses he's watching for a reaction, for Sam to say _hey_ or _you little shit_ or _come on, Barnes, stop messing with him._ The thing is, though, Bucky's not messing with Steve at all, Sam recognizes sincerity when it's on Bucky's face and this is it all over. Bucky _wants,_ has wanted, and Sam could call it quits here but he knows he's not gonna. He wants too, if it comes to that.

“Buck…” Steve sighs, exhaling, and Bucky pulls right away, runs a hand through his hair, looks down. Steve blinks and blinks, glances at Sam like maybe he'll understand what's going on, and Sam feels the power of it hinge in what he does next.

“I'm not getting up, man, if you want a kiss from me you're gonna have to come here,” he tells Steve, and apparently that's the right thing to say because Steve laughs and blushes and bends over for Sam to stretch up into. He touches Steve's cheek and the nape of his neck, kisses him light and easy like it's no big deal, and feels Steve shiver hard. His _mouth_ , Jesus, Bucky's got a beautiful mouth but Steve's is soft, lush, his beard scraping just a little over Sam's skin, and without really thinking about it Sam pulls Steve in closer, parts his lips and touches his tongue to Steve's lower lip. Steve makes a soft noise, breathes out again, and when Sam looks, Steve's eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“God, you're beautiful,” Bucky murmurs, low, and when Sam glances at him there's no trace of jealousy or weirdness on his face. Just heat and simmeringly intent interest, and Sam feels like maybe they've been going about this all wrong.

“I gotta-” Steve chokes, stumbling to his feet, “I gotta- Jesus, I gotta go, I- thanks for dinner,” and he doesn't make eye contact with either of them before he's out the door, tripping over his own feet.

“Did we scare him off?” Sam asks, reaching for Bucky, and Bucky shrugs, settles down into Sam's lap. He's heavy, fuck he's heavy, but Sam loves the weight of him, the way he straddles Sam's hips and slots himself down until he's draped over Sam chest to chest, face nuzzled into the curve of Sam's neck.

“Steve's always been afraid to want what he wants,” he mutters. “Give him some time, he'll figure it out.”

“You really liked it, watching,” Sam says, drawing his fingers through Bucky's hair, and Bucky laughs softly against Sam's skin.

“Come on, didn't you?” he asks, and yeah, okay, Sam did. Would like to watch more, if he's being honest with himself.

“How do we even…” he starts, trails off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Bucky nips at his throat.

“People do this, nowadays,” he says like it's obvious. “The world's real _modern_ , Wilson, you're the one who grew up in it, shouldn't you know? There are website forums and all. Communities. _Advice blogs_.”

“You've been looking up threeway relationship advice blogs,” Sam says, “Jesus Christ, Buck.”

“It's called polyamory, okay, for shits sake,” Bucky says, “and nah, not really. I asked Nat, mostly.”

“That's what all that Russian was about, last time she was here,” Sam realizes, “sweet Lord, you kept that quiet.”

“Well, I mean, her and Laura and Clint, I figured she'd be a good person to ask,” Bucky shrugs, and he's still so relaxed, warm and easy. Sam frowns.

“What do you mean, her and Laura and Clint? Nat's asexual, she told me.”

“You think that's got one damn thing to do with whether or not she's in love with Laura?” Bucky says, and Sam guesses he's got a point.

“And you really…” he asks, “you're really interested in this.”

“I'm interested in _you_ ,” Bucky says, simply. “You know I love Steve, I can't not, and I know _you_ love Steve, and I'm fairly sure Steve's got some feelings on the matter about the both of us. And it just seems like we're setting up for a whole load of frankly unnecessary pining and heartbreak when we could resolve the whole thing like this. But I'm so goddamn happy with you, Sam, and if you want things the way they are, you know I'm here for that. I just don't get the impression you do, is all.”

“Oh,” Sam manages, “I- _Jesus,_ Bucky, how do you-”

“Yeah, I'm doing pretty well at expressing my feelings for a repressed senior citizen,” Bucky says wryly, and snorts with laughter. “Plus, come on, Steve ain't Captain America no more, he doesn't have to be respectable. When's better than now, huh?”

 _Right_ , Sam thinks. _When’s better than now._ He thought maybe they’d have to sit with it for a while, but he hadn’t banked on Bucky reaching for what he wants, for what they want, like it’s _easy_.

 

He feels like maybe Steve will be weird about it, or avoidant. Instead he shows up three days later, late in the evening, doesn’t offer a reason for being there. Bucky lets him in, throws himself back down on the couch where he and Sam had been lying watching tv, and Steve gives them a careful look, sits down a little awkwardly.

“Hey,” Sam says, “what’s up, Steve?”

“I,” Steve starts, flushes red. “I, uh.”

“You’re here because you’re wondering,” Bucky says bluntly, and Steve’s blush gets darker.

“What? No, that-”

“Look,” Bucky says, and he’s still relaxed, deliberately so, his head in Sam’s lap and one leg hooked over the arm of the couch. Sam knows pretty much exactly how much this studied casualness is taking, can feel the tension in all the lines of Bucky’s body. “I know you’re nervous. And you got plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Buck, that’s low,” Steve sighs, “using my own words against me, come _on_.”

“True, though,” Bucky argues, “don’t say it ain't,” and Steve looks abjectly miserable.

“Steve, come on,” Sam says, “you gotta level with us, man, it’s not like we’re gonna say no.”

“You can’t- _god_ , Sam, you can’t know that.”

“For shit’s sake, Steve, do you want us? We want you,” Bucky says, and Sam watches how Steve’s eyes widen and widen.

“Yes,” he whispers, finally, “I- _yes_ , god. Yes,” and blinks down, looks away.

“Then come get it,” Sam tells him, “we’re not going anywhere,” and Steve’s head jerks up like he’s shocked.

“We can’t just-”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “We can.” Steve hesitates for one long moment and then he’s sliding out of his chair, on his knees in front of them, and reaches for both of them at once.

“Can I…” he breathes, and Bucky laughs, pulls him down.

“Go on, kiss Wilson, I know you want to,” he says, and twists in Sam’s lap so he can watch.

This time, when Steve kisses him, there’s no hesitation. He kisses and kisses, careful and desperate all at once, makes a needy noise in the back of his throat, and when Sam opens his eyes, he sees that Bucky’s got his hand in Steve’s hair, tugging just a little.

When Steve pulls away, he's shaking. Shuddering breaths like he's about to cry, and Sam touches his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, you okay?”

“I just-” Steve gets out, and laughs wetly, sits back down hard and collapses against the side of the couch, “ _Jesus_ , I just, you guys, how are you even- how do you trust me this much with this.”

“I dunno,” Bucky shrugs. “Don’t fuck it up,” and then he’s grabbing Steve, yanking him in, kissing him hard. “Stevie,” he says, “god, fuck, _Stevie_ ,” and Sam can hear it in his voice even if Steve can't. Bucky's been wanting Steve for eighty years, and here he is, and _fuck it_ , Sam thinks, they are taking this chance. It's past time.

“Not to hurry things along, or anything, but you think we could take you upstairs?” he says to Steve, and watches him react.

“You-”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “yeah, Steve,” and smiles, lets it show just how much he wants.

 

They get upstairs all in a scramble, Bucky and Sam working together to get Steve out of his sweater and t-shirt and jeans, and he falls back into their bed, clearly hard through his underwear and eyes wide. When Bucky turns to Sam, and slides his hands up under Sam’s shirt, Steve’s teeth catch on his lip and he makes a little noise, breathy and wanting.

“Oh?” Bucky asks, teasing, “that’s how it is, Rogers, you want a show?”

“Well, yeah,” Steve replies, “if you’re offering,” and leans back on his elbows, gives them both a shit-eating grin. Oh, _this_ is how it’s gonna be, Sam thinks, Steve can’t help but be a little shit where Bucky’s dick is involved, so he turns to Bucky, kisses him slow and deliberately filthy as Bucky pulls off Sam’s shirt. Undoes Bucky’s buttons and slides his shirt off his shoulders, mouths wet kisses down the curve of his neck, lower, his chest and his hips, and winds up on his knees, undoing Bucky’s belt and leaving a dark teeth-shaped bruise on the muscle of Bucky’s belly. When he glances back over his shoulder, all of Steve’s bravado is stripped away. Sam’s never seen his eyes so wide or soft or yearning.

“You want to join in?” he asks, and Steve looks a little afraid, ducks his head.

“This is- can I-”

“Yeah, baby,” Sam tells him, “anything,” and Steve smiles, exhales, bites his lip.

“You both- I want to keep watching, if that’s okay,” he whispers, and Bucky laughs.

“Oh, you _do_ want a show, huh,” he says, but it’s fond, and when he touches Sam’s cheek it’s fonder, and Sam gets Bucky’s underwear down right along with his jeans, sucks at the head of his dick just enough to hear him moan. Steve’s making noises too, and Sam doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it, gasping for breath every time Sam swallows Bucky down. It’s so hot Sam one hundred percent cannot handle it at all, and he pulls away, gets to his feet, shoves his own pants off and drags Bucky down into their bed along with Steve.

“Jesus,” Steve murmurs, “Jesus _God_ , Sam,” and when Sam presses himself up against Steve, chest to chest, Steve’s burning right up, skin hot to the touch.

“What do you want?” he asks, and Steve’s breath hitches. “Come on, honey, what do you want? You know we’ll do anything for you.” Bucky catches his eye and smiles, spoons up behind Steve so he’s caught between the two of them, and grinds his hips in against Steve’s ass, drags his teeth along Steve’s shoulder. Steve shudders, hard, and Sam _feels_ his dick get harder where it’s rubbing against Sam’s thigh, and _why haven’t they done this before_ , holy fucking hell.

“I want you to fuck me,” Steve gets out, “I want- I want you both to fuck me, I’ve _wanted_ -” and his voice breaks on the word.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice low, “yeah, that- _yes_ ,” and Sam has to agree. “You first, baby,” Bucky adds, and Sam blinks but he’s not complaining, not when Steve is hot and gasping and desperate between the two of them.

“Okay,” he agrees, “yeah, sure, come on, honey, Steve,” and gets his underwear off, pushes him down onto his back. Steve lets out a long breath and goes loose, easy, lets Sam arrange him with his legs spread and one knee crooked up, and Sam can’t help but kiss the inside of his knee, the tender spot on his thigh.

“Here,” Bucky says, passes him the lube from the bedside drawer. “Slick him up real good,” he murmurs, and Sam grins as he thinks _you’ve got a filthy mouth, James Barnes_ , and then Bucky goes back to kissing Steve, long and slow and teasing in a way that makes Steve lift up his head and chase Bucky's mouth for more. Sam watches for a moment, because _fuck_ they are beautiful, and then pours lube onto his fingers and slides them slow and careful over his hole. Steve gasps right into Bucky’s mouth, tenses and relaxes, and Sam reaches for Steve’s dick with his other hand, rubs the precome down over the head.

“Oh _fuck_ , Sam, you can’t, I’m too, I’ll-” Steve says, urgent, and blushes harder like he’s embarrassed about being on the edge so quickly. Sam smiles, kisses his thigh again, pulls his hand away.

“You’re fine,” he says, “Steve, we got you, you’re fine,” and pushes the tip of one finger into him, just a little. He’s so _tight_ , and he whimpers, pulls Bucky down for another kiss, his hand already fisting in the sheets. Sam keeps going, pushing him open so slowly he thinks he might die from how good it’s gonna be, until he’s working three fingers in and out, Steve covered in a fine sheen of sweat and gasping convulsively like he can’t think or breathe or focus on anything at all.

“Oh, _fuck_ , you gotta fuck me,” he gets out, “god, Sam, please, you gotta,” and Bucky strokes Steve’s damp hair away from his forehead where it’s sticking, kisses him again, gets up on his knees and leans over to kiss Sam.

“Make it good,” he murmurs against Sam’s mouth, and they’re still kissing when Sam lines up his dick and pushes inside, Steve so hot and tight Sam can hardly take it.

“Fuck-” he says, “fuck, _fuck_ , that-” and shifts, thrusts slowly, sees how Steve can take it. Steve arches up, impatient, gets Sam all the way in him at once, and if it were Bucky Sam would smack his thigh, tease him about being needy, but he can see how desperate Steve is for this. “ _Steve_ ,” he says instead, soft and tender, “yeah, sweetheart, I got you,” and rolls his hips, gets a rhythm going.

“Does he feel good?” Bucky asks, still stroking Steve's hair, and Sam doesn't know whether he's speaking to Sam or Steve but shit _yes_ Steve feels good, and the way Bucky's watching both of them, it's so much Sam's overwhelmed, has to shut his eyes.

“Please,” Steve whispers, “please, Sam, harder, fuck me harder, I _want,_ ” and Sam changes the angle, lifts Steve's leg up so his knee is hooked over Sam's shoulder, shoves into him. Steve sobs for breath, mouth opening and closing, and all at once he's coming, messy, all over his perfect abs and chest. “ _No,_ ” he gasps, desperate, when Sam slows down, “no, god, don't stop,” so Sam shrugs and smiles, soft, at Bucky and fucks Steve right through it until he's boneless, shuddering, eyes wet. When Sam comes it's with a shout, pulling out and shooting off all over the mess already on Steve, and Bucky honest to god _growls_ under his breath like the way Steve is covered in come is getting him hot.

“My turn,” he says, “right, Stevie?” and Sam is still collapsed on his back, gasping for breath, when Bucky flips Steve over and grabs him by the hips. Sam pulls Steve up so he's on his knees, leaning on his elbows, Sam cradling his face and kissing his mouth and cheeks and the damp creases at the corners of his eyes.

“You doing okay?” Sam murmurs against Steve's temple, and Steve nods even as he's still blinking eyelashes spiky wet with tears.

“I'm fine,” he gets out, “I am, I'm so, _Jesus,_ Sam I'm so fine,” and then he moans, loud, because Bucky's pushing into him, hands tight enough on his hips Sam can see how Steve's bruising.

“Oh-” Bucky chokes, “oh Jesus Mary and Joseph, Stevie,” and Sam can see in Bucky's face he's about three seconds off telling Steve how much he loves him, how good he is, how much Bucky's _wanted_ this.

“Tell him,” he says, making eye contact, and Bucky's eyes go wide like he's shocked. “Tell him, baby.”

“I-” Bucky starts, and closes his eyes, ducks his head, lets his hair fall down over his face. Leans in to kiss Steve's spine, his shoulders, like that'll say it instead. “Can you?” he asks, shy, and Sam's heart is real big with this right now.

“He loves you,” Sam whispers against Steve's mouth. “Did you know, Steve? He loves you so much, look how he loves you, how _we_ love you,” and Steve's eyelashes flutter down in a sweep like that'll hide how he's crying. It's intense, too intense, but fuck, it has to be said, because Steve's a _goddamn idiot_ and a martyr who clearly hasn't let himself believe any of it, and if prying open his heart and wrecking him with feelings is what it takes, Sam's gonna do it.

“Oh,” Steve gasps, “oh oh _oh_ ,” and Sam shifts down so he's lying half under Steve and can grab his dick, stroke him slow. He's hard again, leaking wetly and moaning soft and broken every time Bucky pushes in, and Sam wants to see him, _them,_ both come apart at the seams.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs. Touches Steve's cheek, and rubs his thumb over the head of his cock. Looks up at Bucky, catches his gaze and holds it, and Bucky mouths his name, _Sam_ , shudders for breath. “Come on, baby, you're gonna come for me, right?” and he's talking to both of them, touching Steve and looking at Bucky and it's practically like they're fucking him too, the way Sam feels.

“Oh _Christ,_ ” Bucky groans, and Sam knows what his face looks like when he comes, teeth sunk hard into his lip. Steve's mouth is open and red and wet and he's shaking, struggling for control, and Sam catches the exact minute it all floods out and Steve absolutely honest to god _loses it_ , because he collapses down and nearly crushes Sam, heaving for breath like he's dying or being reborn.

“We got you,” Sam murmurs, “hey, you're good, we got you,” and watches Bucky curl in behind Steve the way he does to Sam when he wakes up with nightmares. They soothe Steve until his breathing is even, and Sam thinks about how Bucky must have done this such a long time ago, back when Steve was little and Bucky was in the kind of love that burns quiet and painful inside.

 

Steve lies between them for all of ten minutes, and then Bucky rolls him over, kisses him thoroughly.

“Oh, man, you're filthy,” he laughs, gets up to grab a towel to wipe Steve's stomach off, and Sam reaches for the bottle of water they keep beside the bed, discovers it's empty.

When he comes back from the bathroom, he hands Bucky the water, flops down boneless and contented, before he realizes Steve’s got up, is reaching for his clothes.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, and Steve blinks like he’s surprised.

“I…” he says, “I just- I thought- shouldn’t I go home?”

“Do you _want_ to go home?” Sam says, and catches the flinch in Steve’s face before he covers it. He’s got that crease between his eyebrows like he’s worried or anxious, and Sam hurts a little, seeing it.

“I just…” Steve says again, swallows like he’s not sure what to say, and he’s gripping his shirt, jaw clenched. Sam looks at him for another minute.

“Come back to bed,” he says, and there must be something in the tone of his voice that has Bucky glancing up, catching what’s going on.

“Jesus, Steve, what the shit are you doing,” he says easily, “the least you could do is stay the goddamn night,” and Steve pauses a little longer before he unfreezes, puts down his shirt, gets back into bed.

“I thought,” he starts, and he’s shaking again, fine little tremors that Sam can feel vibrating against his own skin, “I just thought maybe it wasn’t that kind of a deal.”

“You’re the biggest goddamn idiot I ever fucking met in my life, Steve,” Bucky tells him, and Sam laughs because yeah, that’s true alright, if Steve Rogers thought this was a _fuck and leave_ kind of situation. “Ain’t that right, Sam?”

“Yeah, man, it’s true,” Sam agrees. Kisses Steve’s shoulder like it’ll soothe him. “Honey, come on, we got you,” and Steve lets out a breath, lies down.

“Oh,” he says, “oh, I- Jesus, Sam, sorry, I keep fucking it up, don’t I.”

“You’re good,” Sam says, “really, you’re fine, just _trust us_ , okay?”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay. I can. I can do that.”

“This is real sweet,” Bucky yawns, “but I’m done, you guys, you fucked me right out. Sam, you gotta take the middle.”

“Wait, why do _I_ have to take the middle?” Sam asks, frowning, and Bucky smirks.

“Because if Steve takes the middle he’ll take up the whole bed and we’ll all sweat to death besides, and if I take it I’ll get squirrely with not having an escape route.” Okay, when he puts it like that it all makes sense, so Sam wriggles over, pulls Steve in until they’re lying curved in toward each other forehead to forehead. Bucky spoons up behind him, kisses the nape of his neck, reaches over Sam’s ribs so he can put a hand on Steve’s side.

“We’re gonna need a bigger bed,” Bucky mutters, and kisses Sam again, just behind his ear, and in the end it’s not weird at all, it’s just _good_ , through and through.

 

When Bucky’s alarm goes off in the morning, he and Steve both groan.

“Don’t get up,” Sam mutters, “baby, come on, it’s too early,” and rolls over, wraps himself around Bucky like that’ll stop him. Bucky’s usually the one doing this to him, honestly, but Sam feels like he’s got a right to it this morning at least.

“You know I gotta,” Bucky whispers, kisses Sam’s temple, but he snoozes the alarm for ten minutes, spends the whole time nuzzling Sam’s forehead and cheek. Tiny little kisses landing on his skin, so soft it flutters.

“Feed the cats before you shower,” Sam tells him when the alarm goes off again, “otherwise they’ll be a pain,” and Bucky nods, pulls himself out of bed, tucks the covers back up over Sam.

“Where’s he going?” Steve mumbles, sleepy, into Sam’s shoulder. Sam shrugs, because it’s really _very_ early for a Sunday morning, and he’s warm and content and mostly asleep.

“Out,” he murmurs, and touches Steve’s cheek like that’ll make him stop talking and go back to _sleep_ , god. Steve goes silent, long slow breaths like he _is_ falling asleep again, until the shower stops running and Bucky comes in wrapped in nothing but a towel. Then he’s propping himself up on his elbows, watching Bucky get dressed, and when Sam cracks open his eyes, Steve looks _hungry_ , longing, like he can’t believe he gets to see this and also like he wants to watch this every morning for the rest of his life. Sam knows the feeling.

“Where you going, Buck?” Steve asks, and Bucky grins as he pulls on a pair of jeans, buttons his shirt.

“Why? Gonna miss me?”

“You know that I am,” Steve murmurs seriously, and oh, god, it’s too intense, it’s a _Sunday morning_ , come on, Steve, _your feelings are showing_. Sam’s chest hurts a little with how clear it is on Steve’s face, and why haven’t they done this before, and _Steve, god_.

“Quaker meeting,” Bucky shrugs. Steve frowns.

“You were born and raised Catholic, James Barnes.”

“Yeah, like a hundred years ago,” Bucky says, and Sam doesn't know whether Steve quite understands the face he's making, the one that says _I'm not who you want, Steve._ Steve turns his frown to Sam, and he shrugs.

“Don't look at me, I'm Baptist. He can do what he likes.”

“Besides, I don't see you in a church every Sunday, you want to lecture me. I dunno, I just like it. They're nice. It's quiet, and there ain't no sermon, and they don't mind I don't believe in God a hundred percent of the time.”

“You just like an hour of peace away from this all,” Sam says, because the cats are up on the bed now and looking like they're about two minutes and one unwisely wriggled foot away from causing a ruckus. Bucky laughs, winds a scarf around his neck.

“You know it,” he says. “Plus there's tea and cookies, after.”

“Biscuits,” Sam tells him just to be contrary. “Biscuits, Buck, you're Canadian.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky grins, leans in still laughing to kiss Sam goodbye. “See you in a bit, baby. Steve, c’mere. I'll say a prayer for your immortal soul, honey.” They hear him taking the stairs two at a time, the back door bang, and then Steve blows out a breath, sinks back against the pillows.

“Jesus God,” he says. “I've known him since like 1925, and sometimes he's someone I don't-”

“You love him,” Sam says. “That's not gonna change. We've just got to figure out all the rest of how it fits around that.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “yeah, okay, yeah. How'd you get so wise?”

“Man, I've always been wise,” Sam says. Tickles Steve's ribs, just because he can. “You just never listened, before. Too in love with your own voice. _I'm gonna save the guy trying to kill us, Sam. I'm gonna take on the US government with the force of my beautiful jawline and my own self-righteousness, Sam. I think Glenn Miller is better than Marvin Gaye, Sam._ God, you're lucky I like you.”

“Yeah,” Steve says simply. Blinks at Sam, wide eyes that are bluer than Bucky's and framed with very long lashes, blond at the tips. “Yeah, Sam, I really am.”

Sam takes him to church for that, or at least Steve sounds prayerful when he's on his back with Sam's mouth on his dick.

 

It takes them a while to figure out what they’re doing. Steve’s still tentative, like he's not sure he's really been offered a space within the shape of whatever it is they have, and he still needs his own space too, maybe, needs to take it a little slow while he levels out. That's fine. Sam's not sure he wants to give up the quiet moments he gets with Bucky, when it's just the two of them and Bucky gets all soft and close and tender. They do go buy a new bed though, a ridiculously large California king that basically fills their whole bedroom, and Steve's eyes go wide when he sees it.

“You're serious about this,” he says like he didn't quite realize before, and in the end Steve sleeps over about as often as he stays at his own apartment. His sketchbooks join the piles of novels on the coffee table, and Mashka stalks around the house yowling for him when he’s not around, and when Bucky gets dressed he’s about as likely to be wearing Steve’s sweaters as Sam’s, these days.

“You don’t have your own goddamn clothes?” Sam teases him, and Bucky shrugs.

“I like it,” he says, “anyway, you both leave enough shit lying around on the floor,” and Sam _knows_ that’s a lie because he and Bucky are both pretty tidy, it’s just Steve who leaves his clothes everywhere, but Bucky’s being too cute to argue about it.

“Whatever,” he shrugs, and goes back to the mejadra he’s cooking, because one of the families he's working with has given him the recipe and he swears he's gonna get it right. Bucky comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Sam’s chest, rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder.

“I was thinking,” Bucky says, “you want to fly your mom up for a visit?” Sam can only blink at first.

“You- my _mom_ , what?”

“Well it's just, Mother's Day is coming up, and all, and I know- It's not like you can visit her. I know you call her on the regular, you're a good son, I just, you know, maybe it'd be nice. We've got a spare room, we can pay for the tickets, and all.”

“Bucky,” Sam says, overwhelmed. Has to blink a bit.

“We don't gotta, if you think it's a bad idea,” Bucky adds hastily. “I mean, if you don't think she should- I know I'm not what she expected for you, maybe. And there's the whole thing with Steve, that's gonna be weird, kind of hard to explain, and I… if you think I'm not safe around her, I get it.”

“ _No,_ shit, that's not- no. I. I was just. _Surprised,_ is all. It's not a bad idea. It's amazing.” It's _family,_ is what it is, Sam realizing all over again. His mama flying up for a visit, because this is his family, and his life, and god, how did he get so lucky. He turns around, pulls Bucky in for a kiss, trying to say it all without saying it, and Bucky makes a pleased noise against his mouth.

“She's not gonna be mad, is she?” he asks, a little shy. “I mean, that I'm…that we're ...”

“If you're going to say ‘a guy’ I think that cat's been out of the bag for a few years now,” Sam says wryly. “Come on, she met Riley, she _knows_.”

“I was gonna say, living in sin,” Bucky says. Raises his eyebrows. “It's basically legal everywhere now, Wilson. No excuse just ‘cause we're queers.”

“ _Do not_ imply to my mama that you're willing to put a ring on this, because you let that slip, she will not rest until she sees a wedding,” Sam laughs, and then has to stop again, breathless. “Wait, were you _serious_?”

“If I was asking, you'd know about it,” Bucky mutters, “come on, I got some romance in my soul. Just wanted to talk about it, a little.”

“How would that work with Steve?” Sam asks, and Bucky shrugs.

“We’d figure it out,” he says like it’s easy. “We have so far.”

 

Steve comes over for dinner the night Sam’s mom arrives, and when Sam gets home from the airport with her Bucky’s made lasagna and pretended like Steve actually had anything to do with the apple pie in the oven. She hugs them both, kisses their cheeks until they go red, and between Bucky and Steve combined they manage to call her ‘ma’am’ about fifteen times in the course of an hour. They’re very well-brought up boys, and Sam blushes hot every time it happens.

“Never thought you'd be taking up with two pretty white boys at the same time,” his mama says matter-of-factly the next day, and Sam chokes on his iced tea.

“Jesus,” he says, “I didn't think you- I mean, Steve, and all,” and his mom smacks him lightly.

“Language, Sam Wilson. And come on. I wasn't born yesterday. You think I don't remember the way you looked at Riley? You can't keep it off your face, the way you look at those two. So why's Steve not here? Pretending like he lives somewhere else so as not to shock my delicate sensibilities?”

“He _does_ live somewhere else,” Sam replies. “His own apartment. Bucky and I, we're… I can't believe you _knew_.”

“Oh baby,” his mama sighs. “We always know, huh. It's not what I'd have chosen. Don't know what the Lord thinks but I know for damn sure what the ladies at church would say. But things change, honey. You know Tinashe’s got a girl now.”

“What? No way,” Sam says, grinning, because he _didn’t_ know, and Tinashe’s always been his favorite cousin. God, he wants to go home sometimes so bad it hurts.

“Yeah, she's Korean. Well, Korean-American. Kim? No, Kate, that's it. All of five foot nothing and rescued Tinashe from a creep harassing her right on Myrtle like it was no big deal. She's real sweet, that girl, you gotta meet her. But baby, you happy?”

“I am,” Sam says, surprised all over again at how true it is. “I'm so happy. I mean, my life is _boring_. I do good work, and I've got folks who love me, and I just wish I could come home for a visit once in a while, but I am.”

“Then I'm happy,” his mama says, “now come on, I’ll cook chicken like you like it.”

“You can’t get collards at the market here,” Sam admits, “it's all kale and turnip greens,” and his mama rolls her eyes better than he’s ever been able to.

“You’re living with white folks for sure, Sam Wilson,” she tells him, and god, does he know. It must be love.

 

When Steve shows up one day in early summer, it's with a package under his arm.

“It's from Tony,” he says dumbly, and puts it down on the dining table. Sam just stares at it for a minute. It's a huge goddamn box, is what it is, and he's pretty sure he knows what's inside.

“He just put it in the _mail_?” he asks. “He _FedExed_ it to you?” and starts laughing, because for _fucks sake,_ Stark. Steve shrugs. Fiddles with the edge of the packing tape.

“I mean,” he starts, and shrugs again. “Yeah, I guess so. I dunno why he gave it back, to be honest. He was pretty adamant about the whole thing.”

“Change of heart,” Bucky suggests, from the doorway. He's in nothing but a towel and his hair is still dripping wet from the shower, and Steve looks at him like he's actually distracted from the damn shield that's sitting in a courier box on their fucking dining table. Sam files that away to tease Steve about later - _hey Bucky, did you know Steve loves you more than his Cap America shield_ \- and begins to cut open the tape, since nobody else is doing a damn thing.

“Go put some clothes on,” he tells Bucky, who just strikes a pose.

“What, Wilson, as if you don't like all this?”

He does, is the thing. But Steve's still got that cutely gobsmacked expression, like he's not used to a house where Sam and Bucky walk around near-naked on a daily basis, especially now that it’s almost June and they don’t have aircon, and also, they're dealing with something kind of important here. At least, Sam feels it's fairly important.

“You got no sense of occasion, Barnes,” he says, and Bucky rolls his eyes, disappears upstairs and comes back a few minutes later in sweatpants and a navy t-shirt that Sam knows is his.

“So,” Bucky says. “Stark changed his mind.”

“I feel like maybe it was Pepper,” Steve says. “Or Rhodes? I can't see Tony reevaluating his opinions after, uh…”

“Well, there's a letter, so that'll clue you in,” Sam says. Hands Steve the envelope that's fallen loose from the box. Steve opens it, reads it in silence. Bites his lip and clenches his jaw like he's upset, blinks hard, hands the note to Sam.

_Steve. I said this didn't belong to you. But I guess it doesn't belong to me either, not just because ~~How~~ ~~my da~~  my old man made it. You always were the favored son, anyway, seems petty to keep you from your inheritance. _

_I heard you're out of the game these days. Whatever, use it as a fruit bowl, or something. Not my problem. But tell Nat she should drop by. I'm getting rusty without her sparring. I know she talks to Pepper, but she should know, I'm claiming her in the divorce._

The handwriting is messy, scrawled in what Sam knows is probably ridiculously expensive ink across the back of a letter with an official letterhead. The Pentagon, a demand for repatriation of government property. Trying to seize the shield, and Tony thumbing it to them the best way he knows how.

“I think he was drunk, when he wrote that,” Steve says, and that’s a pretty reasonable assessment, Sam thinks. Tony Stark needs therapy, or rehab, or both, more than anyone else Sam knows. He puts the letter down, and watches Steve as he reaches into the box. Pulls slowly, like he's not sure he really wants to take it out. The shield is still scratched and scarred from the last fight, scored with claw-marks and scorching and all the paint chipped off one edge. Bucky reaches out, traces the rim of it very cautiously. Sam doesn't know all the details of the fight in Siberia, but he can guess, based on both their expressions.

“Jesus,” Bucky says. “Guess you're the Captain again, Steve.”

“I'm _out_ ,” Steve says, in maybe disbelief. “Damn it, I'm finally out for real, and then- I don't want it back. Tony was right. It's not mine.”

“Well it's not _his,_ and it's sure as shit not the government’s,” Bucky says firmly. “So what the goddamn fuck do we do with it?”

“Fruit bowl?” Steve suggests, “or I could use it as an artist palette, I guess,” and starts laughing, has to bend double and clutch at his own ribs. The shield clatters to the floor, and they all just keep staring at it. It's so incongruous against the scuffed floorboards of Sam's kitchen that he feels like maybe he took a wrong turn somewhere this morning.

“Well,” he starts, “you know what, fuck it, I'm going for a run. Steve, you want to come with?”

“Sure,” Steve agrees, and they make it all the way to the back door before Bucky opens his mouth.

“Get your asses back here right now, I'm not staying here alone with it. Some SWAT team will burst in and arrest me for stealing US weapons or desecrating a cultural icon or something, I fucking feel it in my _bones_.”

“As if you'd let them,” Sam says, but he takes Bucky's point. Watches as Bucky kicks it up and off the floor, catches it with his right hand in a move that's almost as smooth as when Steve does it. “You fought with it too?”

“Well, _someone_ had to practice with Steve or he'd have cut his own fingers off bouncing it off tanks,” Bucky says, grinning at Steve.

“Aw, come on, you punk,” Steve says without heat, but he can't help but smile, all soft and happy, when Bucky lifts the shield to his face so only his eyes are visible. It's something that Sam wants to remember, so he grabs his phone, snaps a photo before Bucky can avoid the camera. Sends it to Natasha just because, and Clint too.

“Anyway,” Bucky says, “what the shit are we gonna do with it, huh?”

Sam has an idea, suddenly. _Return to owner_ , except it's not Tony, not the FedEx address label on the box, that he's thinking about returning it to.

“Steve,” he says slowly, “you got T'Challa’s number, right?”

“Oh,” Steve says, frowning like he doesn't understand, “Yeah, I do. Why?”

Because the vibranium of the shield was never given freely, is why, Sam thinks. Because it was a resource stolen from Wakanda, trafficked illegally out of the country just the same as everything else anyone's ever stolen from the African continent in the name of superior Western development, and if anyone deserves a claim on it now, it's T'Challa. Because he's the only one Sam trusts to take it in hand and make a decision not driven by ego or avarice or regret. _Because,_ Sam thinks, and tries to put that all in his text, and perhaps T’Challa understands even though Sam signs it off with a bird emoji like he's fifteen and spends the next hour and a half full of horrified embarrassment.

 _Thank you, Sam Wilson,_ T'Challa replies, and oh god, it must be like three in the morning there. _Vibranium is not so common a resource, even in Wakanda, that we can squander it. Repatriation is appreciated._ And then there's a cat emoji. Sam _texted a king_ about returning a stolen treasure, and got a reply including a cat emoji, and sometimes he just needs to sit down and stare into space about his life, okay.

 

They box back up the shield so they can deliver it to the Wakandan embassy in Ottawa, and that's the last Sam expects to hear of it, really. It’s Sam and Steve who fly over, since they’re not Tony and they don’t exactly trust the shield to the tender care of FedEx.

“I could go by myself,” Steve says, “I’m used to it, it’s _fine_ , honestly,” and Bucky makes a face.

“Nah, Sam will go with you, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Yeah, of course. I mean, I was the one who arranged it, anyway, I _should_ go, but baby, you don’t want to come with us? Vacation right to the heart of this beautiful nation’s government? We’ll get a fancy hotel room, party like we’re Canadians.”

“I don’t like flying,” Bucky admits. “Small enclosed spaces, people I don’t know, it- no, I- no. I’d rather stay home and keep the cats company. Get some peace and quiet while you’re out of the house.”

“Jerk,” Sam says affectionately, but he thinks he gets what Bucky’s saying underneath. Bucky and Steve have spent a lot of time together, Sam knows  - he’s working full-time now with the refugee resettlement services, and Bucky’s picked up a habit of taking his books over to Steve’s during the day so he can study while Steve paints. Figuring each other out, just like they said. Some days Bucky comes home smelling like Steve, and Sam gets a flare of possessive jealousy that always turns into wanting the both of them too damn much. It’s probably a good idea for Sam and Steve to spend some time, just the two of them. Like it used to be, Sam realizes, and falls asleep on Steve’s shoulder as soon as they’re in the air.

 _Haven’t set the house on fire yet_ , Bucky’s texted him when he can turn his phone back on, and Sam rolls his eyes but it’s a relief, too. _I’m okay_ , is what Bucky means, _I’m doing okay, I’m fine, I love you, have fun on your trip_ , and he’d whispered it all into Sam’s skin the night before but still, _still_ , it’s reassuring.

“I can’t believe you made me put it in checked luggage,” Steve mutters while they’re waiting at the baggage claim, and Sam bumps his shoulder against Steve’s.

“Come on, you think it wouldn’t cause more trouble than it’s worth at security? That thing goes through the X-ray and all the aviators and baseball caps in the world can’t keep us low-profile.”

“We’re here legally,” Steve huffs, “we’ve got travel documents and everything.”

“Yeah, but it’s a _hassle_ ,” Sam says. “Look, there it is, come on.”

They rent a car, drive to their hotel because Sam doesn’t want to go straight from a five hour flight to the embassy. He’s got pride, okay, and if the embassy staff are anything like T’Challa they’re gonna be fine as _fuck_. He wants to change his shirt at the very least.

“I’m glad Tony sent it,” Steve says, suddenly, as Sam’s driving, and Sam glances at him, the way Steve’s touching the shield like it’s something he loves and is conflicted by all at once, looks back at his own hands on the steering wheel.

“Yeah?”

“I really didn’t think he would. Howard _made_ it, and god, Tony… For the longest time, it was hard to realize Howard was gone, when Tony was around.”

“You ever tell him that?”

“Are you kidding? That would’ve been the opposite of helpful,” Steve says, and when Sam thinks about it, he agrees. _Yeah, that’s true_. “Anyway, though, after… after Siberia, I… you know what he found out, right? The Winter Soldier killed his parents.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I know.” He’s known for a while, actually. Not like he and Bucky have many secrets from each other these days. “Bucky’s not him.”

“I know that,” Steve says, frowning, “of course I-” and they both have to take a breath, because yeah, of course Steve _knows_ , shit, they’re both about as protective of Bucky as each other, these days.

“Well, maybe Tony’s growing as a person,” Sam says instead, “and giving it back like this feels good, I think.”

“You know, I never thought about returning it to Wakanda,” Steve admits. “I never even… Howard got the metal, that's just how it worked back then. I didn't even think about where it came from.”

“Well, maybe you should have,” Sam says, letting just a little bit of an edge creep into his voice, because _that’s how it was back then_ has never been a goddamn excuse, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I should have.”

 

Returning the shield is both very simple and very solemn. Steve hangs back, as self-effacing as a six foot two wall of muscle can be, and Sam hands the shield over to Ambassador Ndiliswa and her attaché.

“Enkosi,” she says warmly. “Enkosi, ndiyabulela,” and Sam doesn’t know much but he learned enough for this.

“Wamkelekile,” he replies, hoping his pronunciation isn’t too terrible, and she smiles like he passed.

“T’Challa asked me to tell you,” she adds, “you are always welcome in Wakanda, Sam Wilson,” and holy shit, that’s an honor. Sam ducks his head and smiles and manages not to make a crack about birds visiting cats, because he’s got some sense of timing, come _on._

“Thank you,” he says instead, “I’ll remember that.”

They go wander the National Gallery, afterwards, and Steve loses himself in front of a Monet for like an hour. It’s soft, dreamy, just a swathe of pastel color and light, and Steve gets as close to it as he can, like he wants to see all the individual brushstrokes or just fall right into it.

“Come on,” Sam says, circling back to him for the third time, “come on, Steve, I’m hungry, man,” and Steve looks like he’s waking up from a dream.

“I- yeah, okay,” he says. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Dinner is shawarma, because Sam’s got a craving, and then afterwards they wind up in a bar so Steve can try poutine. Sam drinks a couple beers, surreptitiously texts Bucky a photo of Steve with gravy on his nose, and he can’t believe how chill he feels. He _always_ feels like this, he realizes then, and it’s a little bit breathtaking. Like: Steve’s here, and they’ve just given away the last piece of his soldier’s armor, and it feels good, that this is their life. Maybe he’s just a bit drunk.

“Are you happy?” he asks Steve, because he _is_ a bit drunk, and Steve pauses with a French fry halfway to his mouth.

“I-” he says, and blinks a couple of times, and then smiles, slow and soft and beautiful. “Yeah. Yeah, I really am. This, I... with you, I mean, with _you_ , Sam, I didn't want to let myself think about it. _Two years_ , Christ, I wanted you so much and I hoped like hell you wouldn't notice. And then it turned out I'd been taking you for granted in all the wrong ways.”

"You're an idiot," Sam tells him, but in the end, he can't be mad at how it turned out. 

When they fall into bed that night, they get each other off, sleepy and sweet, and Steve smiles again against Sam’s lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “you know I do, right?” and yeah, of course Sam knows he does, but this is the first time Steve’s said it just to Sam, and he wants to hear it again.

“Move in with us,” he says, impulsive and considered at the same time. Sam and Bucky have talked about it, of course they’ve talked about it, talked it through and agreed. _When the time’s right, we should ask him, yeah_. _You do it, Sam, I’ll get all weird_. Sam figures now’s the right time, is all.

“You’re serious,” Steve laughs, like Sam might be joking. “You really want me to.”

“I mean, if you want to,” Sam tells him. “Just- think about it, okay.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” He kisses Sam again, drags his fingers up Sam’s back, and they’re falling asleep just like that, wound up in each other in a beautiful hotel bed that’s got nothing at all on their own bed and its worn patchwork quilt and cats fighting for a spot and Bucky sprawled out until he’s taking up half the fucking space of it.

 

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says one night a couple weeks later, glancing up from his book. It’s Octavia Butler, so it must be something he’s chosen, not something assigned for class, and he’s got his feet tucked under Sam’s thigh, right hand tangled in Steve’s hair where Steve is stretched out on the floor leaning against the couch. “What do you want for your birthday, huh?” and Steve is quiet for a bit like he's thinking.

“I… were you serious, when you asked if moving in was something I wanted to do?” he says in the end, and neither Sam or Bucky can stop grinning. They wind up spending the third with boxes and a moving truck, but it's made marginally less terrible by Steve owning hardly anything and also being a person who can pick up a couch by himself, and they're done around three in the afternoon, collapse onto the living room floor with beers and an icebox cake Bucky insists is for tomorrow’s cook-out up at the Bartons’.

“Whatever,” Steve shrugs, “I'll make another one, how hard can it be, I want my birthday cake early, Barnes.” When he puts it like that, blue eyes wide and earnest, Sam knows Bucky won't put up any resistance at all, and _Sam's_ sure not gonna, because the cake looks fucking good. Steve looks even better when he eats it with his fingers, gets whipped cream all over his mouth in what Sam knows is a flagrant tease.

They wind up fucking in a tangle on the floor, slow and lazy, Steve and Bucky both tasting salty with sweat when Sam sucks bruises into their skin. The marks fade almost instantly, serum working overtime to heal them, and Sam loves it, does it over and over until both of them are gasping.

“Sam Wilson, you shit,” Bucky gets out, “would you just _fuck me_ already,” and Sam gets him on his knees so he can blow Steve while Sam does it.

“Hey,” Sam says afterwards, flat on his back and sticky with sweat and so happy he aches, “welcome home, baby,” and Steve cries the way he always does when he's feeling some feelings.

The cook-out the next day is weird-good. They’re Americans in exile celebrating a country they can't return to, definitely bittersweet in a way Sam doesn't want to interrogate, but it's Steve's birthday too, and the kind of party where everyone is so relaxed the day goes by in a haze of sunshine and barbecue and talking shit. Sharon’s there, and Natasha, terrifyingly beautiful with blonde hair thanks to her last mission, and she's got guests, an English guy who Sam identifies immediately as a total shit but also probably a decent guy under that, and a very tall, very beautiful woman who holds herself like a spy. She and Nat look like sisters, and that’s maybe the point, Sam thinks, the cover they were working with.

“Bobbi,” she introduces herself, easy, “and that's Hunter. Ignore him, he's weird about the Fourth.”

“What up,” Sam says, “hey, you with SHIELD?”

“We were,” Bobbi agrees. “Not anymore, not exactly. Been doing some work with Nat, since I'm a freelancer these days. But I got a promise that some old friends might drop by.”

They do, in the end, they drop by exactly the way Sam would expect SHIELD agents to show up, in a stealth quinjet that lands on the edge of the clearing. Agent Mackenzie, nodding in recognition to Sam, and a girl in goth black, and while Mack and Bobbi and Hunter hug it out like people who love each other a lot and haven't seen each other in a terribly long time, Steve goes real still next to Sam.

“That's _Quake_ ,” he hisses under his breath, nudging Sam in the ribs, and Sam glances over at the woman - Daisy, he heard Mack say - talking intently with Wanda.

“No shit?”

“She's got her own team, I heard,” Steve says, and Bucky laughs, takes a pull of his beer.

“You're definitely redundant then,” he teases, “she sure looks cooler than Captain America.”

“It's my birthday,” Steve complains, “you're not allowed to make fun of me on my birthday.”

“Baby, it's _America's_ birthday,” Bucky tells him, but he leans in for a kiss, and Sam thinks about how many superheroes there are in the world now and in this backyard specifically, and what beautiful fucking _goofs_ they are.

 

It’s gone September when Sam’s out for his morning run and realizes the leaves are yellow again, crunching under his feet. A year ago Bucky was getting a new arm, remade with teeth-gritting patience in the face of trauma. A year ago Bucky pushed him into a lake. A year ago Sam was kissing him in cold water, so goddamn happy Bucky wanted him too it made his heart beat fast with the joy of it. A year ago he was heartsick for Steve, still a little in love with him, wondering how they’d work it out. He thinks, the way it went, this year’s been one of the better ones of his life.

When he gets home, there’s a box sitting on the dining table, covered in courier labels, and Sam squints at it.

“Tony again?” he asks suspiciously, and Steve and Bucky both shake their heads.

“It’s for you,” Bucky says. “It’s from _Wakanda_.”

When he opens it, he has no idea what to expect, but what’s inside manages to surprise him even so. A _suit_ , an exo-suit like his wings, and not like them at all.

“Holy shit,” he manages, “holy _shit_ , it’s-”

It’s made of carbon mesh with vibranium thread, a full-body suit like T’Challa’s Black Panther gear but with _wings_ , not a bulky harness attachment but incorporated so smoothly Sam wonders how it even works. The wings are nothing like the EXO-7 carbon fiber. They’re almost like feathers, somehow, sleek and glistening silver from the vibranium.

“Put it on,” Bucky suggests, “come on, Wilson, put it _on_ ,” and Sam waves a hand to make him shut up. Reads the letter, and blinks a bit, because _holy shit_.

 _The shield was taken from Wakanda without consent. This, Sam Wilson, is given from Wakanda with joy. Use it well._ And then a drawing of a cat’s face, very simple, just a single line for nose and eyes, another to fill in the ears and the curve of the chin. He’s gonna sleep with this note under his pillow for the rest of his life. T’Challa took back the shield, melted it down, forged it into _wings_ for him, and Sam is so goddamn lucky.

“I gotta shower,” he says, “I- fuck, I can’t put it on while I’m sweaty, it’s disgusting, I’ll be right back,” and he takes the quickest shower in his life, slides on the suit, tries to ignore Bucky and Steve whistling at him. Opens the back door and stands in their yard for a minute or two just thinking about it.

The first moment of flight feels like falling, and Sam’s heart pitches right up into his throat. The second moment, his wings spread and catch the air and he’s _soaring_ , and god, _god_ , he missed this so much it’s like an ache that’s disappearing now that he’s back in the air, pure and true and free. He goes high, wheels around, laughs for joy and tumbles back to the house, throws a fancy landing just to see if he can.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says again, folding the wings in, and Steve and Bucky just nod, like, _holy shit_ is right.

“Is it…”

“Vibranium, yeah,” Sam says, lets Steve run his hand along Sam’s forearm. He’s not sure whether to tell Steve it’s the shield, reimagined, but Steve looks like he knows already, perhaps a little bittersweet.

“So, you’re the Falcon again, huh,” is all that he says, and Sam picks up on the longing in his voice.

“I dunno if it's still a falcon,” Sam says thoughtfully, “the way T'Challa remade it. Not the Falcon specs anymore, for sure.”

“A _goose_ ,” Bucky says, laughing so hard he can hardly get the words out, “Canada has _geese_ , Sam,” and then he throws his head back and howls with it.

“I will pick your ass up and drop you from a great height,” Sam threatens, “see if I won’t,” but he’s laughing too, and Bucky laughs even harder, eyes crinkling shut. Sam pushes out one wing, smacks Bucky with the tip of it and watches how Bucky goes breathless.

“Oh-” he says, “do that again,” and Sam smirks at Steve and then back at Bucky.

“Don't tell me you're into the wings, man, that's dirty as hell,” he teases, and Bucky flushes red but exchanges a look with Steve regardless.

“It's a good look,” Bucky admits, “it’s - Jesus, shut _up_ , Rogers, it's just real hot, is all.”

“Bucky likes men in uniform,” Steve drawls, “that's why he asked if I was keeping the outfit, right?”

“Jesus _Christ_ I can't believe you remember that,” Bucky mutters, “you know what, both of you are awful, I take it back,” and when he turns to go inside, Sam extends his wings out full, wraps them around Bucky and pulls him in like an embrace.

“Okay, that's, uh,” Steve starts, and gets distracted, and Sam thinks he really, really has got to send T'Challa a good thank you note.

“So, you gonna be an Avenger again?” Bucky asks much later, and if it was Steve asking Sam would feel weird about it given all their history, given the way Sam thinks Steve still wants to be an Avenger so much it hurts, some days. But coming from Bucky, it’s okay. He feels Steve go still beside him, though, like he’s waiting for the answer, and Sam takes his time thinking about his reply. It’s important, is all, to get it right.

“I’m not… I don’t think I’m an Avenger anymore,” he says eventually. “But you know how Pepper’s Rescue now, I was thinking, like that, maybe. I don’t want to go looking for the fight, but I’m gonna do whatever I can do when people need my help. Always have, always will, and if the new suit means I can do that more, then yeah, I’m gonna do that more.”

“The Black Falcon,” Bucky murmurs, sleepy. “Yeah, baby, you’re a superhero alright,” and Sam rolls his eyes, curls in against Steve, feels Bucky kiss the nape of his neck the way he always does. That night he dreams of flying, the air warm and soft on his face, and he’s not falling at all, just free and happy and gloriously, beautifully alive.

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh no I def don't want to write a sequel to 'within me, an invincible summer'," I said. "DEFINITELY I don't want to do that," I said. "It was 18k I am TOTALLY DONE," I said. And then I thought about Sam and Bucky and their beautifully domestic life and how much I LOVE them being soft and open with each other, and I thought about writing more, and then. Oh god and then.
> 
> As well as 'invincible summer' this fic is also within the same universe as [this is how it began (this is the secret between)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5302409) because I am too in love with that as a concept, if you'd like some pre-canon Nat/Laura/Clint.
> 
> blessings as ever on [coffeeinallcaps](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/), who tirelessly cheerled me through this whole thing, copy-edited my porn, helped me out with my Sad Steve feelings 
> 
> blessings also on Sam Wilson, the most beautiful Marvel superhero, he deserves EVERYTHING and every scrap of happiness in the goddamn world, forever
> 
> I am [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/), come join me there in my Bucky Barnes Feelings Purgatory or just yell at me in comments OR BOTH

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] from winter, a boundless spring by notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649739) by [joyinrepetition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyinrepetition/pseuds/joyinrepetition)




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